


A Poor Man's Hero

by Capucine



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Ableism, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Adoption, Alternate Universe - Batman is Poor, Angst and Humor, Autism, Autistic Character, Canon Gay Character, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Fluff, Coming Out, Discussion of Abortion, Drabble Collection, Drug Withdrawal, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Foster Care, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Homeschool/Home School, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Blood, Mild Sexual Content, Money, Narcissism, Neurodiversity, Orphans, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prom, Queer Character, Self-Harm, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Sick Character, Stalking, Suicide Attempt, Teen Pregnancy, What if Batman Were Poor AU, relatively speaking, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 123
Words: 139,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capucine/pseuds/Capucine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Batman became Batman without all the gobs of cash? What if he was a guy who started out impoverished, as a child, and saw his parents die due to violence, and vowed to protect other people from such things happening to them?</p><p>This Bruce Wayne isn't a rich businessman or famous. He owns a martial arts dojo, and that barely keeps his nose above water. And then he takes in foster kids on top of that.</p><p>But this Batman is just as relentless in his pursuit of justice as his rich counterpart. Will he be able to successfully pull it off as part of society and not above it? Will his lack of funds prove disastrous, or his obviously less sophisticated background make him more of a target for the GCPD?</p><p>And what about the Robins, the Batgirls, and so on?</p><p>These are drabbles about their lives, all interconnected, all with varying levels of humor and angst and fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Piece of Shit

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys like it! I found the idea for the AU on Tumblr. I'll see if I can find a link tomorrow!

“Fuck this shit,” Jason complained.

“What?” Tim leaned over his shoulder, eyeing the device. He let out a sigh. “Jason, you can't mash the buttons like that; you know they die as fast as flies.”

“Oh, oh, are the buttons not working, Tim? _Really?_ Thanks for your input, I'll just get in the TARDIS and go back!” Jason grumped at him, throwing down the complicated listening device.

It was more than a walkie-talkie or some sort of sonic ear—Tim himself, with Batman's help, had designed it out of all sorts of plastic and metal parts to make it pick up all kinds of frequencies, from the aural to the radio and so on. It was kinda gadgety, looking like something from an animation ghetto film.

Tim sighed. “Jason, you go through too much equipment. You know Bruce is going to make you get a part time job or something--”

“I have a job,” Jason practically growled.

“Yeah, a part time one selling old shit, so, room for another part time one, right?” Tim took the device from Jason's hand as the other glared at him.

“It's not 'old shit' Tim, it's antiques, okay? And it's all I could get cause I impressed the owner with knowing what the fuck kinda old timey gun he had on his fucking shelf! I don't see you bringing in a serious income--”

“I'm a student; that's my occupation,” Tim said, almost primly. He busily popped off the rubber buttons, all stolen from various remotes and things like that. Well, stolen was a strong word; they did technically buy or otherwise recover the remotes for their own use. Some of the components could be used to make more gadgets, after all.

“Oh yeah? You're about to learn something, _Bud_ \--”

Jason was interrupted by the arrival of Dick. The elder was in his full costume—leather jacket (great protection from various things), army-type dark camo clothes (blended in, thick, protective material), and, of course, the whole blue wing-thing on his front, and his mask. “Sup, kids!”

“Not a kid,” Jason snapped, crossing his arms. His own clothes were a lot like Dick's, but favored a red bat insignia and significantly more body armor.

“Sixteen is hardly--” Tim had started, adjusting his goggles and absently poking the 'gold' bird on his chest, as if he saw the insignias on his brothers' and had to be sure his was still there.

“You're practically in diapers, Tim,” Jason snorted.

Dick ignored this. “So...what's going on? Why haven't you contacted me or Bruce with what you're hearing?”

“Cause meat-hands here destroyed the buttons,” Tim replied, prying another button out and examining the gadget.

“I did not! I'm not the only one who uses that thing!” Jason insisted.

“Yeah, cause obviously it was me, who knows how much pressure this thing can take, or Damian, mister light-fingers himself, or Dick--”

“Tim. That's not helping,” Dick interrrupted, sighing. “So? Where are we with the listen-o-tron?”

“No, Dick,” Jason almost groaned, “You don't get to name _anything_ , not after calling the van the 'Batmobile.' God, it's like you have some sort of mental deficiency, like Post Traumatic Naming Disorder--”

“It's dead. Nothing I can do here or within fifteen minutes back home,” Tim said flatly, giving an accusing look towards Jason.

Dick groaned. “Fine, fine. I guess we have to call it off for the night. Bruce isn't going to be happy.”

“Blame lead-fingers.”

“Tim, shut the fuck up, I'm going to piss on you while you sleep.”


	2. Orphan Number One: Dick Grayson

Bruce had not initially considered adopting. Hell, he hadn't considered kids at all, deciding long ago to remain celibate—or at least, unattached. But his street, the one his dojo stood on, bordered the strangely empty fairgrounds. Strangely empty in that it was surrounded by buildings as close in as they could get.

But this area was designated for use for all kinds of celebrations and shows and such well over a century ago, and apparently, tradition had stuck like gum in hair in this case.

At that moment, the fairgrounds had not been empty. A circus had come through, the rare show worth the amount paid for the ticket. But that wasn't why Bruce decided to go. He had already become Batman, worked on his own to clean up crime around the area, though not the whole of Gotham, not yet.

Zucco, a local petty crime boss, was making a move of some kind on Haley's Circus, and he intended to stop it. This directly affected his area, as the circus brought in money and people. The more people flooding an area, especially given that they were people that police would definitely listen to, the less violent crime tended to happen. This was a common effect of things like major conventions and other huge group gatherings in areas that had fairly frequent violence. Too many people to get the job done. Sure, there was still some pick-pocketing going on, but it was a relief for the area, despite the nighttime noise.

Bruce was in the stands, keeping a close eye on Tony Zucco. Very close, in fact—he was directly behind him, looking like some random dude from off the street. A slight beard, a knit cap (the cheap kind that came in colors no one really wanted), and a worn jean jacket kept him from looking too suspicious or stand out that much.

But he hadn't counted on the plan already being in place the first night, before he had a chance to do much. He'd counted on Zucco giving Haley time to come up with money, as the case seemed to be an extortion one.

“Presenting, the Flying Graysons! The World's Greatest Acrobat Family! Some of the only performers in the world to perform without a net, defying death itself!”

Bruce watched as the three people who made up the Grayson family took their places. Their costumes were red, yellow, and in the case of the little boy, also green. They were form-fitting, and showed off slim but toned bodies; the eldest, Mr. Grayson, ruffled his boy's hair.

The kid, perhaps nine, grinned, and watched as his father swung out over the open space.

Mrs. Grayson put a single hand on the boy's shoulder; she must have squeezed, though it was hard to tell at the distance, and she swung out as well, and flawlessly flipped into her husband's waiting hands. The timing was impeccable, as it had to be.

The crowd was cheering, Mrs. Grayson's costume fluttering in the momentum caused by the swing—they were coming up, presumably intending for their child to also swing out and catch his mother's hands.

But even over the crowd, Bruce could hear the sound, and he would never forget it—the crunch, twisting snap of metal.

The crowd didn't know what had happened, why the Graysons' form was lost, why the boy didn't jump, until the swing itself had reached a plummet towards the ground, and by the time the elder Graysons hit the ground, it was stunningly too obvious what had just happened in front of their eyes.

Screams, gasps of horror, a general stunnedness struck the packed tent.

And Bruce could hear Zucco give a sort of amused snort, barely audible.

But what he was focused on was the small boy at the top, crouched over the ledge and staring down at the broken bodies of his parents.

There was no knowing his grief for the average person...but Bruce knew.

The emergency workers didn't even get to begin trying to save the Graysons. They only got to solemnly zip them into body bags.

All the while, the tiny Grayson sat huddled under a blanket, face tear-streaked, blue eyes looking ahead like he expected something to change suddenly, for reality not to be real. Bruce knew that look, and it was when something changed inside of him.

It was when he knew he needed to be there for the boy, as someone who would understand.

It was when he began the arduous process of becoming a foster parent.

Richard, or Dick, as he preferred to be called, had needed to be placed quickly, and so, despite him being single, they allowed him to stay with him within a week, since his home above his dojo just barely squeaked past their standards, as did his income.

With so many kids in the system, Bruce thought a bit wryly, they couldn't afford to be all that picky.

Dick settled in fairly well, all things considered. He ate, went to school, slept well, and so on. He even began to make playful banter with Bruce whenever the other insisted on some task, such as folding his laundry.

Bruce had never intended to bring him into his other life, his life as Batman.

But one day, Dick would discover the Bat costume—and the files on his parents' murder.

There was no going back then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I have not quite accurately portrayed the foster care system, as it would probably be incredibly difficult for a single man to foster any kid, but eh. What can you do, right? I hope you liked it! It's a little more tell than the other chapter was, but I think I'll switch between such accounts and snippets of everyday life. :)


	3. Blind as a Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's eyesight is not as good as he thought it was.

“Robin! Get to Room A12 now!”

Tim was a great Robin. Dick often commented this, though he still dearly missed Jason. But he was a bit...off.

Such as now.

Tim looked about, searching for Room A12.

It was one of the three rooms a good twenty feet away, clearly labeled in white letters against dark gray walls: A11, A12, A13. Bruce could see it easily from where he was sort of cornered, the letters not completely stark against the wall, but obvious enough.

And yet, Tim was still frozen, despite the fast reflexes he had.

“Robin!” Bruce shouted again.

Tim immediately changed direction, looking at the other doors, apparently sure that the shout had meant he was looking the wrong way. He looked like he was panicking a little, as he scanned the closer doors and saw that they were all the wrong numbers.

“Westward!” Bruce shouted, rather than demanding to know what was going on. Tim hadn't been hit in the head or drugged or anything.

Tim turned back towards the other doors, a frustrated frown on his face as he quickly closed the space, not particularly veering towards any of the three doors until he got fairly close.

Then, instantly, he got inside Room A12.

The mission was over quickly after that, the doctor rescued and the medical study's secrets kept safe.

But the issues with Tim were not over. Bruce was silent as they rode home in the 'batmobile', the name Dick had bestowed, and Dick chattered a mile a minute, not having actually been in the room with them at the time of the incident. 

However, Dick knew how to read a room, so to speak, and picked up on the other two's mutual silence. He sighed, and said, “Okay, what happened?”

Tim ducked his head down a bit. He seemed to recognize he had done something the wrong way, even if his posture suggested a certain amount of uncertainty.

“Tim froze in the field.”

Dick looked over at Bruce, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “No way. Tim doesn't do that--”

“I didn't freeze!” Tim insisted. He looked a little incredulous now. “You knew I wasn't some sort of superhuman when you got me!”

This brought quizzical looks from both Dick and Bruce.

Bruce frowned. “What are you talking about, superhuman? I didn't request anything superhuman of you, Tim.”

The thirteen year old wrung his hands together, but then he gave a sort of glare. “You can't seriously expect me to make out something like that at that distance! I know we're supposed to be the best, but--”

“Wait, how far did you want him to see? Like, a hundred feet or something like that? Because that's ridiculous--”

“Twenty. Twenty feet, roughly, with large letters,” Bruce said, a little flatly.

Dick's brow creased, and he turned to stare at Tim. Tim, obviously sensing something was not right, shrank a bit in his seat, confusion on his face. 

Bruce sighed. He was calculating, of course, trying to figure out costs and other factors. The fact that Tim was a foster child would help, he got a small allowance for his needs, though it was never enough on its own--

“What's—why--?” Tim stammered nervously, clearly worried about the strange looks on his foster family's faces.

Dick laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. “Oh, no, Timmy, don't worry. You're just blind as a bat, apparently.”

“Yes. We're going to see an optometrist,” Bruce sighed, though, remembering his foster son's nerves about, well, _needing_ anything, he turned and gave him a sympathetic look. “It's all right, Tim. You may just need glasses.”

Tim stared a moment, looking mildly horrified. “Wait, people can see further than that? Can, can read at that distance?”

Dick rubbed Tim's shoulder affectionately. “Hey, kiddo, it's okay. Just get some glasses and it'll all be fine. No prob!”

Tim looked like he might hyperventilate. “But—but glasses are expensive!”

Bruce gave Tim a soft look. He slowed the van a little, and reached over to put a hand behind Tim's head. “It's all right, Tim. It'll be fine. No one's needs in this family go unmet. Understand?”

Tim nodded, head ducking down.

The appointment was made; Tim ended up having somewhat bad eyesight, and also turned out to be allergic to contacts, much to his dismay.

When the new Robin appeared with identity-obscuring sports goggles instead of his typical mask, there might have been a slight confusion among the resident villains. However, none of the three of them knew for sure, as they were a bit too fast in taking them down to hear any opinions.

However, the delighted look in Tim's eyes, as he spotted things much further away than he ever had before, the images crisp and clear, told Bruce this had been a big improvement.

Definitely worth the investment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based somewhat on my own experience with eyesight, lol. Kinda got the idea from Tim's goggles in the picture I got the idea for this series from. Gah, wish I knew how to find it! DX
> 
> Anyway, backstories are definitely going to be a little different in this verse. In this one, Tim's is as a middle class kid who was neglected and kinda deprived. :) I'll get more into that in future chapters! (His feelings towards money are also based on my experiences *thumbs up*)
> 
> Plus, sports goggles are cute.
> 
> Lastly, this Bruce, who has been properly vetted and is much more directly involved in his kids' care, is more in tune with them and better at being fatherly, in my opinion, having gone through the foster care system himself. :)


	4. Pop, Crack, Boom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is a different child from Dick, but that's all right--Bruce is determined to take care of him, and let him open up at his own pace.

“I'm scared.”

This was not something the tough street kid that Bruce knew would admit voluntarily. In fact, Jason did not seem to be admitting it, standing in his doorway and scowling, face challenging him to believe it.

Bruce sighed, sitting up in bed. He turned so his legs were off the bed, feet touching the floor, and the covers pushed aside. “Okay. Let's talk about it, if you want.” He tapped the space next to him on the bed.

He knew Jason was...very different from Dick. In some ways, he'd been through more trauma—no, it wasn't a contest. How he might describe it is more _sustained_ trauma. His case worker had said he had CPTSD. Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Where Dick had had PTSD, the events of his parents' death very scarring, Jason had had to deal with terror much of his life after about the age of six or eight (it was unclear which) and that contributed to a different state of mind than Dick.

Dick still feared something happening out of the blue. Something suddenly changing.

Jason hadn't quite accepted that things had changed.

The green-eyed boy looked at the bed, still scowling. Bruce knew he didn't have an awful lot of experience with adults who cared, and he didn't always trust easily. His teenage mutant ninja turtles pajamas seeming to positively glow green in the limited light, and he took a step, and then another, and another, until he stood in front of the bed.

His eyes slid towards Bruce, as if gauging if he was lying, and then, slowly, he sank down about two feet away from him.

Bruce waited patiently. He wanted Jason to feel safe, and not forced to do anything.

Jason wrapped his arms around his knees, and said, rather conversationally, “You know, I can see that one time the guy broke my arm. When I close my eyes, at least tonight. With a crowbar. Pop, crack, boom, arm's bad for over a month. Sounds kinda like nothing you've probably ever heard, y'know?”

Bruce sighed, but didn't contradict Jason. Jason might have known he was Batman, but it didn't do any good to tell him that, no, he knew what the sound of a breaking bone was, and he had heard it plenty. Jason's experience was still unique to him, and it wasn't fair of Bruce to try to discount it even if that wasn't his intention. He could tell, despite the very casual tone, that Jason was upset. “Okay. If that's what you're dreaming about tonight, that's okay. It's a real thing that happened and it's legitimate to be disturbed by it.”

Jason frowned down at his knees. “Yeah. It really happened.”

His soft face, still at that soft age between teenagerhood and childhood, was slowly turning darker. “It really did happen. I remember that.”

“I know you do. I believe you,” Bruce assured. He had seen the medical records: a healed broken bone in Jason's wrist. Among many, many other things.

“Yeah. You'd get him, right? Batman'd get him, if he came here, right?” Jason said it almost like he didn't care, but his eyes were intent, looking at Bruce in a way that suggested he was trying to gauge his reaction.

“I would not let anyone hurt you,” Bruce promised. “If that man, or any other man, came to break your wrist or otherwise, I wouldn't let them. You're safe now, Jason.”

“Okay.” Jason was quiet a moment, and rather like a child reaching out to touch an electrical prong in a socket on a dare, leaned very slowly towards Bruce. His head lightly touched against Bruce's mid-upper-arm, and he said, very quietly, “I know.”

Bruce didn't know for certain how to react, but he went with his instincts—his other arm came up slowly, within Jason's view, as non-threatening as possible, and gently stroked his hair.

They stayed like that for a few moments, and soon enough, it was enough for Jason. He turned away after, and Bruce immediately let him take his space. The boy hopped up to his feet, and said, “Night. Night, D...Bruce.” He quickly looked away, like he wanted to say 'Dad', which was undoubtedly what he'd been about to say, but he just wasn't ready yet.

It was all right. Bruce would wait until he was.

Jason headed for his room, and shut himself in with the quiet click of the door.

Bruce felt a slight smile on his face. He felt like he was making progress with the boy, and he felt like Jason would be all right after all.

No child was irredeemable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason's gonna have a slightly different backstory in this, but he's still a street kid. His introduction to Batman will come up later! I see him as being a traumatized kid, as all of Bruce's adoptees are, but he will come around to be the one most attached to Bruce.
> 
> Well, for a while, anyway. :)


	5. All the Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The appearance of Harley Quinn--and Dick's effective method for dealing with her.

Harley Quinn. Certainly not the single most crazed person that Bruce had seen on the streets—and not an irredeemable lunatic by any stretch.

Her true name was Harleen Quinzel—an unfortunate name, in his opinion, but his taste of names had little bearing on the situation. Well, certainly not more unfortunate than Dick, even though that was a nickname Dick insisted on going by despite the attempted beatdowns and teasing at school.

The boy had handled those fairly well, Bruce thought—trying to de-escalate or neutralize it when he could, kicking ass when he had no other option.

Which was honestly why Bruce had revised his choices in terms of schooling, but that was entirely different issue.

Right now, Dick was Robin, and Robin was slowly approaching Harleen.

“Hey. Hey, Ms. Quinzel? It's okay. Put down the baseball bat, we're not gonna hurt you.”

He was all of thirteen, not quite to the point his voice had changed but much lankier than before. His jacket rustled as he put out a calming hand. 

Harleen laughed. Laughed like the damn clown that had made her like this. She tapped the aluminum baseball bat against the brick wall, saying, “Why? Why is it okay, little man? You tryna use—use--” she seemed to strain for the term, a very bad sign given her background.

Harleen Quinzel was an accomplished enough woman. She had her degrees in psychology and therapy—she was a doctor. She had focused on trauma in her education, and in much of her career, working with victims of crimes.

And then, she had the misfortune of losing her job. Just another place that needed to downsize or die, and Dr. Harleen was the least experienced, with the smallest client list.

She had to take what she could get at that point, and that, unfortunately, was Arkham. She wasn't trained for working with the _criminals_ , but it was incredibly difficult to retain people to do that work, given the general working environment and the difficulty of dealing with homicidal or otherwise seriously messed up people.

She had done all right. Bruce was aware she hadn't liked it there, but she'd put up with it, steadily paying off student loans and saving up for a new car that wasn't over a decade old.

But then there had been a breach of security—a serious one. And Harleen had been left essentially at the mercy of the Joker—for ten hours.

Frankly, the general management at Arkham was shit, and that was putting it mildly. By the time the police were called in, by the time she had been reached—she was what some might described as 'cracked.'

Bruce knew it was trauma, and that many people dealt with it in different ways. 

Harleen's way appeared to be latching on to the Joker, believing—even though she knew better, she had to—that she was his special girl, a diamond in the rough that he had chosen.

She had to, after the way she'd been essentially shuffled off and forgotten as just a nameless casualty of faulty management.

“I'm not trying to use anything,” Robin said gently, and Bruce knew he was watching the bat.

His own urge was to run forward, protect Dick from the potential danger, but that could set Harleen off—and he knew Dick had trained for this, had been doing it for a couple years now. He knew Dick was capable, as much as his instinct was to protect him.

“Yeah, you are,” Harleen accused, and she stepped on her victim as she moved towards Robin slowly, making the warden of Arkham—who had gotten off scot-free—moan in pain. “You're tryna trick me. Well, I know all the tricks, so ha, in your face, kid!”

Her hair was up in two childish pig tails. She was wearing a smear of red lipstick, and her face had been done up messily in white makeup. Her outfit was clearly taken out of a costume store: a harlequin clown. With a frilly little skirt and the checkers on her body.

And, of course, a rather effective baseball bat, which had already done quite the number on the man she was able to blame—who definitely held responsibility, of course, but she could not blame the Joker at this point, Bruce knew, despite his greater culpability.

Dick said, softly, “It's okay, Dr. Quinzel. I'm not trying to trick you; I wouldn't do that. I just want you to put the baseball bat down, kay? I just want to help.”

She eyed him suspiciously, that glint in her eyes, one that Batman recognized—loss of control. A desperate grab to feel like she was the one making the choices.

Dick seemed to sense that she wasn't going to give it up, and instead, sat down on the asphalt, cross-legged. “Okay. Okay, if you can't put it down, let's talk, okay? Let's just talk. You're a psychologist, right? You know that talking can help, can be safe—and you know all the tricks. I won't be able to trick you. And it'll be your decision what we talk about.”

Harleen considered this. Then, fluidly, she slipped into a cross-legged position across from Robin, too close for Batman's comfort, bat balanced on her knees. “Okay, boy wonder, let's talk, huh? Let's talk.”

Robin nodded, hands resting on his knees. “Whatever you want to say, you can.”

And Dick...he was a wonder indeed. It took two hours, but he talked her down, even got her to let Bruce treat her former boss—it turned out his life was not in danger, thank god, because they would have had to do something more drastic had it been.

And she cried, makeup running down her face, and hugged Robin, seemingly not noticed Bruce's flinch reaction, the way Robin gave a small gesture that it was okay.

The baseball bat had clattered away, and his thirteen year old son had cradled Harleen Quinzel, promising her that it wasn't her fault, that this was something she could overcome, and she was not broken, not damaged goods.

Something she should know, but much like any given doctor, it was hard to apply your knowledge to your own issues.

It was only when she pulled away, and came over to Batman, expecting to be taken to jail, that his grip on the military-grade baton he used relaxed. His hand was almost cramped from the tense situation, the worry that he would have to jump in and save Dick.

They got her checked in to Our Lady of Mercy—the hospital with the best psych ward for the cost. Bruce had been there a couple times, around eighteen and nineteen, and while it wasn't the best fix—a stable family situation was the best, but it wasn't something they could offer—it was a start. Harleen would find help, he would keep tabs on her.

Her boss, given that she had information on his corruption and Arkham couldn't take any more negative press, declined to prosecute.

Bruce had treated Dick to his favorite—mocha ice cream, a small tub from the grocery store on their way back in their civvies. “I'm proud of you.”

Dick grinned back, immediately throwing his arms around Bruce despite slowing his walking. “I just did what you would do. And thanks. I love you too.”

Bruce affectionately rubbed Dick's head, then wrapped his arm tightly around his son. “I suppose my I love you is belated, then?”

Dick just laughed, amazingly huggy for a teenage boy.

But it sat a little heavily in Bruce's stomach—he wasn't sure if he could have pulled off what Dick did.

It was another reason to continue improving _all_ tools he could use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the psychology is mostly sound, though I am no expert.
> 
> With this Batman, I feel like he'd have more of an understanding of 'insanity', or, rather, mentally ill or traumatized people pushed way too far. Like, that he'd be more likely to find a nonviolent way to deal with someone like Harley Quinn. Yeah, he's never been all that violent with her, but I think this Batman (and by extension, his Robin) would be more intent on nonviolent methods of dealing with people who really aren't bad.
> 
> And Dick is a sweetie-pie, in my opinion. Probably naturally better with people and reading them than Bruce.


	6. Orphan Number Two: Jason Todd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason Todd's origin story.

Jason was not planned, per se. His fostering and then adoption, that is. From what Bruce understood, he wasn't exactly planned on by his parents either, and this general lack of planning and organization seemed to carry over into the boy's life, emotions, and behavior.

But Jason was here, and he was very aggressively invested in _staying_ here—alive and all that.

Bruce had discovered the boy in a rather unexpected way—Dick had been out of commission that night, as he had the previous two weeks. He'd broken his arm, but not crimefighting—instead, trying to perform a quadruple flip in what turned out to be too limited space.

He'd been trying to impress Roy—who was the 'sidekick' of Green Arrow, a man who also fought crime and had been in Gotham at the time. Batman had begrudgingly made his acquaintance, telling him to not fuck anything up in his city.

Dick had taken much more of a shine to Roy. Despite the kid's rather taciturn and grumpy approach to things, like always, Dick was a social butterfly and charming as all hell, and was able to the boy smiling towards the end of the meeting.

Bruce had not liked the vibe the archer boy put off—not so much that he was a danger to them, but his emotionally closed-off sort of behavior. He sensed a certain amount of emotional neglect or deprivation in his life—but considering Oliver Queen, it was probably unintentional.

Dick was...not a hot dog, but a bit of a show off at times. He wanted other people to delight in his abilities too. And so, somewhat rashly, he'd decided to show Roy his quadruple flip—and the rest was history and ended the meeting.

So, for the moment, Batman was solo.

And that was why there was no one keeping an eye on the van, for one thing. And that was why, when Batman returned from a successful halt of a mugging (the area was getting less and less likely to have such crimes as time went on, and he hoped to inspire the same fear in other areas as well), three of his wheels had been taken apart, the hub caps and tires in neat piles on a blanket.

And a little boy, kind of grubby faced and in a soiled t-shirt, busily removing the fourth wheel with something of a practiced ease.

The boy's green eyes widened on seeing him, and the tool he was using clattered to the asphalt. His eyes darted from the Batmobile, to Batman, and then down the alley—for the best escape route.

Of course, he wasn't exactly as fast as Batman, and when he saw Batman coming towards him as fast as he was, the kid changed his mind—and ducked under the Batmobile.

The little boy, possibly ten, curled under and, as Bruce discovered, just out of his reach, under the van. He was probably curled in that wet spot that always seemed to form under the old van—it was always kept in working order, but the wet spot didn't seem to interfere, and so it was left be for now.

Bruce sighed, on his hands and knees next to the Batmobile, and said, “It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you.”

Jason snorted. “Yeah, cause I haven't heard that one before. You ain't getting a finger on me, you fuckass.”

Bruce sighed. It was clear, from the way Jason was positioned, to the way that his voice slightly trembled even as he tried to sound tough, that Jason was scared. He was frightened, had clearly been hurt before, not unlike a lot of the kids who lived on the street.

Which, Jason either lived on the street as a runaway, or he had severely neglectful parents—or parent, or parent-figure, by what Bruce assumed at the time. Grandparents, usually grandmas, often ended up caring for their grandchildren in this area, to the point that at least half of the blocks of apartment buildings that made up this area were on social security, and this was a common topic of conversation.

Though, of course, what with the disabled population as well, it was understandable that social security was a common thing. He also knew it rarely provided enough, and that was why there were so many people on it in this rather impoverished area.

“You know who I am?” Bruce said, softly, not in the scary voice he used for criminals and intimidating people.

Jason spat out, “Yeah, you're Batman—the super cop bastard.”

Bruce replied, “No, I'm not a super cop bastard. Have you ever seen what I do?”

Jason seemed to falter at that, then admitted, “No, but I heard stories!”

Bruce stayed down on the ground, replying, “I don't hurt kids like you. I know you don't do criminal things because you're bad—the same as the mentally ill people you probably know on this block. I hurt people who want to hurt other people—the people who are causing actual harm. Like the drug dealers on this block; like the muggers and rapists and the abusers. Not kids. Not innocents.”

Jason was quiet a moment. Then, he said, “You could be making up shit, you know. You could be lying to me.”

Bruce sighed, and said, “One moment.”

He dug in the Van, sliding the door open and finding the supplies he usually carried. A baggie full of things that people in crisis could use—food, electrolyte-infused drinks, an emergency blanket, socks, and a few other things. One set had sanitary napkins and a few other things for women, but he grabbed a set that would work best for a small boy.

He slid it under the car. He heard the baggie crinkling as Jason opened it, examining the contents.

There was a murmur, somewhat unsure, of, “I guess you're not full of shit, Batman. Probably.”

Bruce backed away from the van a bit, as he saw Jason crawl out. The boy's posture was still defensive, still expecting trouble—but there was a certain amount of trust in his eyes.

Bruce nodded towards the car. “Why don't you help me put my wheels back on, and then I can take you to get something to eat--”

“Pancakes?” Jason's eyes had positively sparked with hope, before quickly turning back to a distrustful stare, as if sure that since he had asked for it, he wouldn't get it.

Bruce cracked a smile. “Yes. Pancakes.”

It was quick enough work, and they headed to a small diner, and got pancakes.

It took a bit, after Jason slowed down enough inhaling pancakes, to talk to him about his situation and things like that.

Bruce was just glad he'd brought cash, and didn't need to reveal his identity.

He wanted to take Jason home that night. He wanted to keep him safe. But he knew it would scare Jason badly to try to take him into custody, especially after finding out that Jason was a runaway from foster care. 

He kept an eye on him for about a month after that, bringing him the things he needed and slowly building enough trust.

And then, then, finally, he was able to talk Jason into coming home with him—working it out with his social worker to live with them. What with his good track record with Dick, it wasn't hard, and he was able to get a bed put in for Jason—the room was big enough, thank god.

Jason had settled in rather cautiously, but soon enough, was rather amicably getting along with Dick. 

Jason had known from the beginning about Batman.

When he was strong enough, when the time came, he would fulfill the role of Robin—after dealing with the medical issues related to living on the streets. But not for a few years at least.

For the moment, he was just Bruce's son—and a well-loved one too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was somewhat inspired by this funny text post on Tumblr, where Batman describes Jason as 'Jason hid under my car, and I had to get him out with a broom.'
> 
> Also, yeah. Jason has medical issues that are gonna show up later. He's a good kid and all that, though.


	7. The Threat of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman (and Jason) meet Superman for the first time. It does not go well.

Superman was not someone Bruce had particularly wanted to meet.

He was the epitome of overpowered 'I know what's best for you.' He was like the arm of the government, at least to Bruce, enforcing laws and perhaps not considering which were just, if the reports were anything to go on.

In Bruce's opinion, he had no understanding of what it was like to be at the lower level—the factors that made criminals by strict definition of 'people who broke the law.'

And he was just too powerful. Bruce had been researching on the dinosaur computer that he'd managed to get for at least a year after Superman had surfaced, trying to find out everything he could. It was made slower by having, well, a slow computer, but he still knew what he was doing and was able to find not only Superman's secret identity—Clark Kent, good ol farmboy from Smallville—but hints of weaknesses.

Bruce had encountered the man on one of Jason's early patrols. The boy was excitedly flipping off of pretty much anything he could, Dick's lessons and flexibility exercises paying off to the extreme.

Watching him had brought a smile to Bruce's face. Jason had just turned thirteen, an age he thought appropriate enough for starting—with a lot of supervision and definitely being kept back in the case of serious danger. If he was going up against the mob or what have you, he would take Dick—who now went by Nightwing, gracefully bowing out of the Robin role with a grin at Jason-- 'You earned it, kid.' At seventeen, he certainly did deserve to move on, to individuate.

Jason was pretty much sparkling with his excitement, but still being 'safe'--keeping his footing, not falling too far, etc.

Which was why, shortly after he fell out of sight after beginning a perfect flip, when there was a cry of surprise, shock, possibly even fear, Bruce had picked up his pace and caught up, blood already pumping through his veins fairly fast.

What he saw made him automatically want to clock the man—but he knew it was useless to do so.

Superman, simply floating there, had Jason by the ankle, a look on his face that was a mix between 'I saved this poor innocent child' and 'I stopped this apparent ruffian.' “Where are your parents?”

“Fuck you, put me down!” Jason had snapped, and that was when Bruce had spoken up.

“Put him down. Now.”

Superman surely had known he was there, at least to an extent—Bruce's research had told him of his super senses, and sneaking up on him did not seem too likely. But his blue eyes still looked mildly shocked at Bruce's appearance. “Are you his father?”

“Yes. I am,” Bruce said without hesitation. He might have considered hiding their relationship, but he had pretty much instantly decided that Superman would consider it his duty to return Jason to his parents, and if he didn't believe Bruce was that parent...

He did not want Jason having to deal with the police or anything like that.

Jason flipped out his other leg, and kicked Superman in the chest—letting out a grunt of pain.

Superman didn't even flinch, and where someone might have been slightly amused, he did not seem to be. “You can't hurt me, kid. What are the both of you doing out here? Don't you know this is dangerous?”

Jason squirmed, growling.

Bruce was fighting growling himself, but he knew he had to keep calm. Threatening the powerhouse could result in things going badly, given that he hadn't been able to get his hands on the weakness of the man—kryptonite. It was very expensive, partially due to being fairly rare.

But if he hurt Jason—if he made him feel unsafe, then Bruce would take action, futile though it may be.

“We are doing what you do,” Bruce said, words tasting vile in his mouth. He was _not_ Superman, but if Superman believed he was, perhaps he would not meddle in Gotham.

Superman seemed to take in the bat emblazoned across Bruce's chest, and his eyes narrowed. “You're the Batman. Aren't you?”

“Yes, I am. Do you have a problem with that?” Bruce asked icily. He gestured towards Jason. “Now put him down.”

Superman glared, but in that cool, 'I am the upholder of justice' sort of way. He hefted Jason up higher, as if to make a point, seemingly forgetting how terrifying that could be for a child. “I should report you for child endangerment.”

Jason's breathing was a little faster now, something Bruce could easily pick up on. There was one thing Jason feared in particular, and that was being forced out of Bruce's home. That was losing the only true home he'd ever known.

Bruce glared back, saying, “I take good care of my children, thank you. And it's not your business--”

“So child abuse is not my business?” Superman replied, a stern gaze on Batman.

It was like he only saw the crime, and not the child clearly fighting not to lose it in his grip. 

Bruce practically growled, “You may think it's kindness to force loved, cared for children into the foster care system, but you have no idea. You're a farm boy, lower middle class at worst, you've never had to question if anyone in your life loved you. If you put my boy through that again--”

“How did you know that?” Superman demanded, eyes trying to be icy cold but clearly shocked, alarmed.

Bruce gave him a flat look. “I'm a detective. I find things out. Put my child down.”

“And if I don't?”

“Then I'll do whatever it takes to ruin your life. I know who you are, and your no-kill policy. Do you know how long it takes for a man or woman to be put in jail for child abuse? Do you know how long the process takes in Gotham? Because I will have plenty of time to ruin your life.” Bruce said this firmly, coldly, not showing any of the fear he had deep in his chest.

Superman considered this.

Bruce added, “I'm perfectly content to let you lead your life wherever you want to—as long as it's not Gotham. As long as you don't come near me and mine. I have no desire to ruin you—only the ability.”

Superman's nostrils seemed to flare for a moment, and then, he tossed Jason towards the roof.

Bruce moved to catch him, but Jason managed to land on his feet, wincing a little, and quickly turning around with his 'tough guy' posture.

“Fine. For now, I will leave you, your family, and Gotham alone. But what you're doing isn't right, Batman. One day, it'll come back to bite you in the ass. I won't say I told you so, though.”

“How kind of you,” Bruce replied flatly.

Superman scowled, but then left.

Presumably, he finished up whatever he'd come to Gotham for.

Bruce didn't know. He took Jason home, cutting their patrol short.

The bruise on his ankle was a full-fingered fist, but not serious. The damage was far more mental than anything, as evidenced when he latched on to Dick upon entering the house, his elder son in the midst of Trig work and looking momentarily startled, but quickly hugging Jason tightly.

“Hey, little wing. Hey.” His eyes asked Bruce what had happened.

Later, Bruce was able to explain.

But the first meeting of Superman and Batman had gone rather sourly.

Bruce probably wouldn't have believed, that night, that it would have gotten much better—outright cordial—in the future.

For that night, he merely looked at the bruise on his son's ankle, and the threat of him and Dick being taken away—and considered seriously whether or not to continue on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cause, yeah, technically, what Bruce does is probably legally child endangerment. And I think Superman would have some feelings about that. Plus, he would see a child falling and not immediately assume 'Oh he must be trained and know what he's doing.'
> 
> I really, really love Jason right now. I watched the clips of him as a small child from the Red Hood movie. My poor baby. *hugs Jason*
> 
> I also feel that this Batman would have even stronger feelings against Superman than canon Batman has. Bruce in this setting would probably have more issues with authority than Bruce of the other one, in my opinion, having been through the foster care system and dealt with corrupt police on the negative end of things. Cause, canon Batman may be irked by corrupt police, but as a very rich man, he didn't have as much personal experience with them. As an impoverished child...yeah, very different circumstances.


	8. Wearing the Symbol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batgirl, or Barbara Gordon, arrives on the scene.

Barbara Gordon had never been in the plan.

Of course, as Bruce quickly learned, just because she wasn't in his plans, didn't mean she wasn't making plans of her own. She was a very smart girl, with what he would describe as a crusader streak—something that he felt most people like them should have, tempered by a certain amount of empathy and compassion.

Barbara, or Batgirl, had shown up when Dick was about thirteen, shortly before discovering Jason.

He'd heard the rumors first. A feminine figure wearing the symbol of the Batman, decked in purple and with a high grade tazer and police-grade pepper spray as her main tools, and lithe and agile but not necessarily a good fighter without her tools.

Stopping muggings. Beating down abusive spouses and boyfriends, with a chirpy, “Maybe be a little kinder, kay?”

Going after cases of child abuse in which the abuser got away with it. It seemed she had a good sense for when someone was getting away with it and when someone had been falsely accused, strangely enough, when Batman studied what cases he'd heard of.

He and Dick hadn't really sought her out. Batman had wanted to talk to her, figure out where she was coming from and what drove her to put on the Bat symbol, but she was harder to know, given that he had little to go off of with her physical appearance, and while she was within a certain area, her patterns of movement were fairly erratic.

Just because she was on one corner one night, did not mean he would find her there again the next night or the corresponding day of the next week.

Which was smart. He and Dick made a point of not keeping regular patterns of patrol. People might be able to predict them then, and that could be very dangerous.

She clearly was a strategic thinker, more than capable of forethought and considering many possibilities.

So, when they did run into her, it was by chance. He could see her green eyes through the eyeholes of her mask, but she was smart enough to keep her hair tucked away—less likely to drop a hair and leave behind evidence. Also more identity concealing. He and Dick covered their hair.

She saw them in mid-spray, some poor thug dropping to his knees and screaming. She had looked like she might make a sort of quip, or something like that, but she stopped on seeing them.

Dick rushed over, making sure the guy was down and out (he was), and quickly got excited. “Hey! You're Batgirl, right? That's you!”

She sighed, saying, “Seriously? That name stuck? God, I was trying to go by Batwoman!”

Batman approached then, and the annoyed teenage posture seemed to drop as she took on a stance more similar to a police man or a soldier she'd seen on TV. 

“Batman,” she said, obviously trying to affect a stoic, professional greeting as she nodded her head in his direction, but the nervousness of her voice showed through. It was like she looked up to him—which was actually a distinct possibility. 

He hadn't necessarily wanted to be imitated—or really admired at all. The whole point was to be scary, was to intimidate criminals into not doing the things that would get them a beat down.

But of course, perhaps he hadn't counted on the 'good' part of the population, the ones who felt they had nothing to fear from him, spinning that into a reason to admire him.

He hadn't known who she was at that point. He simply couldn't know everyone in Gotham, so tracking down her identity would be a challenge.

He'd given a brief nod back, which seemed to send ecstatic energy through her posture, even as she reigned it in. He said, “I think we need to have a talk.”

She'd nodded, seeming a little apprehensive at his tone, but bolstering that up with her confidence quickly. She hopped onto the fire escape that Dick easily seemed to fly up, and they gathered at the top of a building.

She hadn't revealed her identity that night, of course. They'd discussed her goals, her reasons for joining his crusade, her skills.

One thing that was heavily apparent was that she was not so much trained to fight. She obviously had taken a self-defense class or two, but Bruce explained that tazers and pepper spray, though especially tazers, were pretty dangerous. A tazer could potentially kill someone, stop their heart instantly. She should not be indiscriminately using one.

He got several clues as to her identity.

She was a gymnast. She had connections to the GCPD. She was a teenager who went to Gotham High—she was a freshman there. She looked away with a hint of bitterness, regret, in her eyes when he mentioned her parents. Not an 'I hate my parents' sort of look, though.

More like she didn't have them—or at least one of them. Given her gear, he would suppose her father was a policeman and was still alive, but very busy. Possibly drowning himself in work in his grief.

She'd been hesitant at his invitation to train with him, to learn how to fight the real way. Because she needed to be able to fight without weapons, since those could break or be taken away.

Bruce had already deduced her identity by the time she showed up at his dojo late in the week. He'd already contacted her with the offer through a coded flier for half price lessons.

Barbara Gordon. Police Commissioner Gordon's daughter. The man who saw Batman as a minor menace, and was grieving the loss of his wife to an act of random criminal violence.

Barbara needed this as much as Dick had, Bruce recognized, and despite the risk, took her on, flaming red hair and all.

She learned quickly. In about a year, which was during the time that Jason was taken in, she was ready for street action once again.

She and Dick got along swimmingly. Barbara could be astonishingly 'all business' for a teenage girl, and Bruce mostly respected that and didn't call her out on 'childish' or 'girly' behaviors.

He also didn't make it known he knew about the things she and Dick did when they thought he wasn't watching—snuggled up under one of his ratty comforters and watching old Disney VHS tapes, for instance, singing along to the music and making all sorts of in-jokes about the characters ('You're Jafar cause of your scraggly beard, Babs.' 'No, you're Jafar because he turns in a giant red genie and you know how you get when you don't get sleep--' 'I'm an angel with no sleep! I am so offended! Hurt, Babs, hurt!'). Or playing Oregon Trail on his dinosaur computer and cackling with glee when the other 'died.'

Things like that. Bruce worried a bit it would lead to more, but he figured he would deal with that when it came to it. He didn't want either of them to feel they had to act a certain way around each other—it would cut into their ability to work as a team, for one thing, and for another...they were just kids.

And Dick didn't have a lot of friends—well, _close_ friends, anyway, friends who knew his secret.

And so, Dick and Barbara become best friends.

She would the first Batgirl—and not the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda went with making her just a bit older than Dick, similar to The Batman cartoon, which I quite enjoyed. I did see this super cute fanart where Dick is like nine and Barbara is like sixteen and he's sitting over there crushing on her hard while she's texting and being like, 'What? Oh, I guess that's cute'
> 
> It's an adorable picture. I'll have to see if I can find it sometime. I was tempted to do that, but I changed my mind.
> 
> Still, yeah, I am a DickBabs fan, if you couldn't guess. For now, however, they are mostly in an innocent friendship stage.
> 
> And Jason will factor in to how they interact too, which will be shown in future chapters. :)


	9. The Cliff Tactic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Damian's fights were out of hand from the beginning. But Bruce knows this isn't something that can be easily resolved.

Tim and Damian stood before Bruce, heads hanging in shame.

Relative shame, anyway.

“What are the rules about fighting each other?” Bruce said, a frown deep on his face.

Damian glared at the wall. “Take any advantage you can, because fighting is serious and in the real world--”

“The rule is we must follow the rules for martial arts competitions,” Tim said, as if he was pleased with one-upping Damian in this area. “We must announce our intention, bow to each to each other before the match, and use no lethal or crippling techniques—or techniques above the level of our opponent.” He smirked at Damian. “White belt.”

Damian looked like he might kill Tim, so Bruce spoke up sternly.

“Yes, those are the rules. What is also in the rules is that both people must consent to the match, _Damian_ , and that taunting is unnecessary and inflammatory, _Tim_.” He looked at them both with a grave expression, adding, “And you know Damian is highly skilled, Tim, just outside of our martial arts system. He's progressing faster than you did.”

Tim flushed, and Damian smirked at him. “How's it feel, Drake, to be--”

“Damian.” Bruce's voice was incredibly stern, and he was wondering if he could keep it up for much longer. If he could continue to mediate these fights in a manner appropriate to both a parent and martial arts master. “Tim is a member of this family as much as you are. His name is Timothy Wayne, like Dick's is Richard Wayne and Jason's is Jason Wayne. You will not demean your brother that way.”

Damian was glaring daggers at Bruce, but quickly put that look away. Bruce knew he wanted to be loved by his father, but somehow presumed that Bruce loving anyone else meant there was no room for him.

He had had a tough childhood, the kind that would contribute to this mindset, unfortunately.

Bruce sighed. “What can I do to stop you two from fighting? Do you understand I love you both? That I would do anything for either of you?”

“Oh yeah? If Dr—Tim and I were falling off a cliff, and you couldn't reach us both, who would you save?” Damian demanded.

“I would save you both,” Bruce said flatly. He was not about to play this game.

“But you can't. You have to choose,” Damian insisted, unaware as a ten year old how ridiculous this tactic was.

Of course, it was a very ten-year-old or younger kind of tactic, so Bruce was actually slightly relieved to see it.

“I'm Batman. I can save you both,” Bruce said, with finality. “Focus on the issue at hand, please. We need to talk.”

Tim groaned, and Bruce knew how much he hated feelings-talk, how uncomfortable he was with it—no surprise, considering his upbringing and childhood, and the great pains Bruce had taken to be allowed access to Tim's real thoughts and feelings and not what he thought would be the best response.

Damian snapped, “No, I already had a talk with Dick about stupid things, and I am not talking! I'm not talking to anyone!”

“Well, either we're talking, or I will take away both weapons practice, and put a password you can't crack on the computer, Tim.” 

Tim swallowed, as if considering how likely it would be that Bruce would put a password he couldn't crack. Bruce had certainly had the practice of trying to beat Tim, and it could very well be a long time before Tim figured it out, if he did.

Damian, on the other hand, screamed, “You can't do that!”

“I can. I'm your father. I don't want to, but I will, because I can't have you bot beating each other senseless—or landing each other in the hospital,” Bruce replied, a calm tone despite his feelings at his child screaming at him.

Yeah, Jason and Dick had both had their episodes of screaming—not so much Tim.

Honestly, he was worried that no such episodes had arisen with Tim yet. The boy was all too put together at times, all too self-contained, despite the years of them living together and such.

At fifteen, he was still not that expressive.

Damian, on the other hand, had expressing himself down—if the emotion was anger, anyway. “You can't! I won't let you!”

“You don't have to let me,” Bruce replied, though he felt a twinge of guilt. He knew Damian did not like control being taken from him—it was a big issue for him. He sighed, saying, “It's not permanent, and your weapons will still be there when you decide to talk about it and improve your behavior. I'm not destroying your things or taking them away forever.”

Damain hissed, not unlike a cat, “Fine. Fine, I'll talk with stupid Tim. But if I catch the idiocy--”

“I'm more worried about catching rabies from this myself,” Tim said, frown on his face.

Still, Bruce directed them to the couch.

It was technically in the dojo—the downstairs of the building was a dojo. Yeah, the back, hidden area also had the kitchen and such, but the majority was the dojo. And of course, there was a lumpy-yet-soft secondhand couch as a waiting area—or for watching movies together.

Both boys plopped on it, as far away as they could be. Bruce sat in the middle.

“Okay. Now, we're going to express what we're feeling about each other. Since neither of you excel at this, which I understand is neither of your faults, I will start.”

Bruce took a calming breath, and said, “Damian. It makes me hurt to see you attacking Tim.”

Damian flushed weird and snorted, turning away. Bruce continued anyway.

“I get the sense you feel insecure in your place in the family. I know you don't attack Tim because you're bad or anything like that, but I love Tim too, he's my son and I don't want to see him hurt. When you react in anger like you do, when you lash out, it hurts the whole family, not just Tim.”

Damian scowled, staring at the mats laid out on the floor—practice had been just a bit earlier, with the students, and they were letting them air out a bit after cleaning them. He tucked his knees up to his chest.

Bruce turned to Tim. “Tim. When you verbally attack Damian, calling him names and dehumanizing him--”

“Whoa, dehumanizing? Don't you think that's kind of strong?” Tim said.

“Tim, calling him a demon brat is dehumanizing, and it's not okay. I know you don't start the physical fights, but you do help provoke them. I know it's hard to adjust to a new family member, and you've been through a lot in the past couple of years, especially regarding your place in this family, but you can't treat Damian that way. You know how you felt with Jason. You don't want to perpetuate that. You are causing some of the hurt n this family too.”

Tim had turned a studiously blank face towards his feet, seeming intent on studying the seams of his socks, which were on upside down.

Bruce was quiet a moment, letting his words sink in. “Would either of you like to express how you feel to the other?”

There was quiet for a moment, before Tim let out a sort of soft snort.

“I can't tell him anything. He'll just use it against me next time. This kid is a...he only cares about hurting people. He just uses whatever he can, and I'm not giving him ammo.”

Damian crossed his arms over his chest, and spat out, “When you say things like that, it makes me mad.”

Bruce raised his eyebrows a bit; it was a start.

Tim seemed a little surprised at that, but said, “Well, how do you think it makes me feel when you throw stuff about my parents or my issues in my face? Don't you think I get mad too?”

Damian scrunched up his mouth a moment, then admitted, “Yes. But you're...you're really mean and you want me gone. I want you to be mad too.”

“I didn't want you gone in the beginning, but then you threatened me in the middle of the night and told me to leave home if I knew what was good for me! I mean, shit, Damian, who does that?” Tim demanded.

Damian was silent a moment. He interlocked his fingers over his knees. “I...I just wanted you gone. You were the youngest.”

Bruce was able to click that together—Damian thought Tim had what should be his place. The way Dick and Tim interacted, Damian must have thought he could have that if he could only get rid of Tim.

Tim seemed able to as well. “Yeah, thanks for the empathy. New baby bird, so the old one gets kicked out of the nest? That's how you thought it was? Dick isn't gone, in case you didn't notice.”

“Yes, but he has a life outside. He stays with Barbara sometimes, half the time, and you're always here. You're always the one they love, not me,” Damian said, and then, as if he realized what he'd said, he bolted upright, snapping, “I'm done! I'm done, leave me alone, and don't you dare take away my weapons!”

Tim looked astonished, but said nothing.

Bruce let Damian go. He would talk to him alone later. For the moment, he let him leave to go vent—presumably in the alley, where Damian had set up a sort of obstacle course he liked to attack with a sword.

As soon as he was gone, Bruce turned to Tim, saying, “Thank you for being at least somewhat open and honest. I know it doesn't come easily to you. And I know that must have been uncomfortable.”

Tim nodded, looking unsure.

Bruce sighed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “It's okay. I still love you, even if you fight with Damian.”

Tim leaned against him, not returning the hug but seeming quite content in it. “I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't fight with Damian. I know taunting him only makes him mad, and he's ten and I should be the bigger one here.”

Bruce nodded, though he did add, “Damian has blame here too, but I'm glad you've recognized your part. I know his threats were wildly inappropriate, and you know I dealt with them once you brought them to my attention.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, ducking his head down a bit.

“It's understandable that you're having a hard time with Damian, given how he's treated you. You have a right to be angry, Tim,” Bruce said, “But so does he. And neither of you have the right to abuse the other over it.”

Tim just sighed.

Bruce decided to pick up this issue another day.

He knew better than anyone that nothing big was solved in a day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. The Cliff Tactic is something used by little kids to determine who their parent loves more--basically, 'If sis and I were about to die and you could only save one, who would you save?' Some kids will try to be clever and lead up to it with the opening, 'If Mickey Mouse and I were falling off a cliff...' or, you know, some other fictional character/celebrity. Cause, you know, you gotta build up to it, lull them into a false sense of security. Certainly tried that when I was a kid. XD
> 
> The ages are sort of closer together in this, I think, than in DCU canon, but eh. It's hard to pin that down well in canon anyway. :)
> 
> And yes, Damian feels unloved because he thinks he's unloveable, not because he's not loved. Poor kiddo.
> 
> And to be clear, such threats should be taken seriously, but in this chapter, they'd already been dealt with.


	10. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's life on the streets has a heavy price.

One of the hardest days—rather, the few of them clumped together that made up one horrible, heartbreaking experience--of Bruce's life, at that point, was when Jason revealed something by accident.

Not something about their identities or activities—something about himself, to Bruce.

“Careful, Dick—the flu's real bad this year,” he'd said, pausing in eating his cereal. It had been four months since the beginning of his being fostered by Bruce, and he was going to turn eleven soon enough.

“Jaybird, don't be silly. The flu's bad every year, and besides which, it's just a one day deal—you know, show up to the thing, present your speech, see if you go on. Nothing big, I swear,” Dick said with a grin, messing up Jason's hair affectionately.

Jason frowned at him, voice serious. “I'm not being silly, Dick. You'll be shaking lotsa people's hands and all that shit—some assholes don't even wash em after pissing or shitting or whatever.”

“Okay. You be sure to check me over for germs when I get back--” Dick started teasing, but Jason cut him off, startling him.

“No! That's not how germs work, you fucking asshole!” Jason snapped, fury suddenly across his face—and his bowl full of cereal hurled at Dick's face.

Dick caught it, but the milk and frosted shredded wheat splashed all over him. “Whoa...Little wing, what's wrong?”

Bruce decided to stop what he was doing, which was balancing the books for the dojo, and get involved. “Jason, you know you don't throw things at your brother.”

He was looking at Jason, scrutinizing. Trying to figure out exactly what had set him off, and if it was something he needed to talk about.

Jason glared at Dick, snapping, “He's not taking it seriously! He could die and he doesn't give a shit!”

Dick was staring, a bit confused. “I'm not gonna die from the flu, Jason—I have a great immune system, and that whole flu business in Asia isn't over here anyway. We haven't even heard of any fatalities that weren't related to, y'know, being really weak or old or having AIDS or something...”

Jason scowled. “You could still get my flu.”

“You have the flu?” Dick asked, looking concerned—like exactly the big brother Jason needed.

“No, Dick,” he said irritably, “I had the flu, bout six months ago—I almost died. I thought I was dead, sometimes. It sucked ass and I don't want you to die, you asshole!”

Cursing up a storm tended to be Jason's tell that he was upset. Bruce had moved from his computer chair (a folding chair that had been rescued) and sat next to him at the small dining table, not wanting him to feel dwarfed by the difference in stature. “You didn't mention this to the doctor, did you?”

“No, she's an asshole.”

Bruce sighed, but something was nagging at him.

It wouldn't be unusual for a street kid to get the flu, or nearly die from it. There were other things, however, that also wouldn't be unusual for a street kid to catch.

“Jason...” How could he ask delicately? His eyes flitted over to Dick, requesting he leave for privacy's sake.

Jason saw it, though, and suddenly gripped Dick's arm, a frown, almost frightened, going across his face. He seemed almost nervous about anything Bruce could ask, but that was almost default mode for him.

Dick moved closer, looking confused, but gently resting his other hand on Jason's shoulder. “It's okay, Jay. Bruce just wants to ask.”

It was almost not fair that Jason trusted Dick more than Bruce, but then, affairs of the heart were rarely fair, if such a thing could even be defined, and it wasn't an expectation that should be shoved on a kid, especially one with Jason's history.

It made sense he'd trust a fellow 'kid' more—he hadn't had any trustworthy adults in his life.

Bruce sighed. Dick knew just about everything else in this family. He'd just watch Jason and see if he changed his mind. “Did you ever...did someone touch you, in a--”

“Dick didn't do anything!” Jason yelped, fear coming into his eyes. “He didn't do anything, I swear!”

Bruce was concerned about this outburst, and his eyes went to Dick.

Dick just looked confused. “Um? Are you talking about him sleeping in my bed lately? Cause I'm not even in it most of the time he is anyway, and, y'know, separate blankets and all that...” His eyes widened a little. “Oh my god, it's not anything like that! I wouldn't—he's a kid!”

Bruce believed him, but Jason's reaction left something unanswered. “Why would you make that assumption, Jason? Did something happen to you in your foster homes?” He added, quietly, “If you're not comfortable talking about it, it's okay. You don't need to feel forced or rushed into it.”

Jason snorted, looking relieved. “No, god no. I mean, I got beat up all the time, but...those were other kids. I saw it happen. Stuffed foster homes are shit.”

Bruce was a bit relieved at that—yes, Jason had obviously suffered trauma from both being terrorized and seeing such things go on, but just that he was granted that mercy felt like a god might be listening, just a little.

“Okay. I believe you.” Bruce was quiet a moment. “When you were on the street, can you tell me things that happened to you? Anything you didn't tell the social worker?”

Jason's mouth pinched. “I didn't get fucked or whatever, if that's what you're asking. If you didn't notice, I'm kinda an ugly-ass kid, Bruce.”

“No, you're not. Did anything else happen?” Bruce asked. He didn't want to prompt too much, because he knew that could make Jason make things up—things he might think were true, but which really weren't.

Jason shrugged, but his eyes darted down towards the table. “Nothin'.”

He must have sensed skepticism, because he hastily added, “Y'know, starving, beat up for stealing shit, nearly dying of freezing to death, specially that time there was all that rain but it was ice rain, and, uh, you know, almost dying from the flu.” 

Which, of course, was hardly nothing, as Bruce had seen the evidence of this, but he pressed on, voice gentle. “You can tell me anything, Jason, I will not think less of you. Neither will Dick.” 

Jason nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Bruce tried again. “Did anything happen not too far before the flu? About a week before, perhaps?”

Jason's eyes widened a bit, but he quickly controlled the reaction. He turned towards Dick, as if seeking protection from Bruce, and that made Bruce sigh softly.

“If you don't want to talk about it, it's okay, but I'm concerned about your health. I'm not judging you for whatever happened, Jason. I wouldn't do that to you, you know that.”

Dick was very gently, very carefully putting his arms around Jason, and he said softly, “Jay, it's okay. You can tell us.”

“They'll take me away,” Jason finally whimpered, suddenly burying his face in Dick's sweater.

Bruce suddenly wondered if perhaps Jason had committed a crime. He said, however, “Jason, they won't do that. No matter what you did, you're only ten, they're not going to do something like lock you away.”

Dick rubbed his back gently, like one might pet an unfamiliar cat. One that you wanted to love all over, though. “It's okay, Jay. It's okay.”

“'m not a fucking junkie—I don't even need any, it was horrible and I hate it—“ Jason said, obviously trying to fight crying.

Something he'd retained—crying, that is. Not all kids who'd been through similar traumas did, at least for some time after escaping. Bruce's heart seemed to crack at that, and he reached out, gently touching Jason's shoulder.

“What happened?” His tone was one of compassion, of caring—not one that would throw him to the wolves for drugs, which was what Bruce was guessing had gone on.

Jason's face was positively crumpled when he looked at Bruce, and said, in a hitching voice, “I just wanted—I wanted to stay. I wanted them to—to like me, to let me stay.”

Bruce was quiet, letting Jason continue but guessing where it was going.

“These guys, they were, they were junkies, kinda, and they let me hang around, fed me pizza, and then—then they shot up. Said if I wanted to, I could too, but I hadta pay. I had money, kinda, I stole, uh, I stole an old broad's purse, had about two hundred dollars in cash—that was a really lucky day, and she was a dumb bitch--” his face turned scarlet and ducked down, “So I did. I did and I threw up and I thought I was going to die. I woke up in my own piss and all alone, cause it was shit stuff and probably had all kinds of fucking shit in it.”

Then he broke into new tears. “And they'll take me away, cause junkie kids always go to 'tough love' homes, always. And this ain't tough love, or a rehab home.”

“Oh, Jay...” Dick said, holding him tightly. “It's okay. You're not a junkie, and they're not going to take you away.” Dick's eyes met Bruce's, pleading with him to say he was right.

He was. Bruce's heart was breaking for the kid, his poor Jason. He knew what peer pressure could be like, and the need to survive would only make it worse. Jason had always had a need to belong, it seemed, as much as he often covered it up.

He could feel Jason's colder body under his hand, and he sighed to himself. “Dick's right, Jason. They're not going to take you away because of that. You're not an addict, so you don't need to be there.” Though, of course, Bruce personally felt such places were horrible at fulfilling their jobs anyway—a proper rehab center could do wonders, but frankly, those set up for orphaned juveniles? Not so much.

As was often the case with people who had no voice, no one to stand up for them, and no way to stand up for themselves.

Jason was hiccuping now. “I get to stay?”

“Yes. But, I do want to do some testing, okay? Medical testing, to be sure you didn't catch anything.” Bruce's heart felt like it was being slowly cracked like a mirror. He had a feeling he knew already, knew such signs.

Still, Jason agreed to the testing, eager to stay. He sat uneasily in the waiting room, fingers clicking on the plastic chairs of the health center and scowling at anyone who dared look his way.

Then, they were counseled, the woman rushed due to the number of patients, but a sad look in her eyes as she looked at Jason. He called her a 'fucking bitch with dumbass eyes' and the counseling was over fairly fast. Bruce had gently, somewhat grudgingly, corrected him on his behavior, but he knew Jason was scared, and had every right to be. 

The oral test, which was what was available at such a clinic, was held in his mouth for four minutes. He kept staring at the wall, then eyeing the pamphlets about things like meds and safe sex and such, and how to prevent AIDs when infected with HIV.

Bruce kept a hand on his shoulder, preventing his nervous legs getting him to his feet and out the door. Not a firm grip holding him in place, but a gentle one keeping him just calm enough.

They'd gone home after that, and Jason had curled up with his favorite book (currently, a book about a kid who tamed dragons) and not said a word.

He slowly relaxed over the next week or so, though there was always that edge to his voice.

Bruce was on edge too. He didn't know what to expect, was hoping it was a coincidence. Or that Jason really had picked up the flu.

On the return visit, very early in the morning, Jason had been so pale, so silent, that it was eery. The way he kept clutching his sweater, and trying to pull off his 'I'm fucking great' tough guy act, told Bruce he was scared shitless.

The results were not good.

Bruce would never forget the stricken look on Jason's face as the doctor explained, as gently as she could, that he was indeed HIV-positive. She looked pained that someone who hadn't even reached eleven would be infected, but at the same time, like she'd seen it before.

Jason screamed at her that she was lying, bursting into angry tears.

Bruce had managed to bundle him out when he couldn't calm him down and he threw a whole container of tongue depressors—a plastic one, thank god.

The drive home had been fairly agonizing emotionally. Jason had stopped trying to destroy things, but he wouldn't talk either. He had his face pressed against the window, and appropriately, it was raining.

They got inside the house, and Jason bolted away from Bruce, the front door, and up the stairs. Bruce followed, a bit fast but not running, worried that Jason would do something reckless.

But it wasn't reckless. It was waking up Dick, burrowing under his covers and obviously pleading with the way he clung to be held, body shaking with silent sobs.

Dick woke up fast, and pieced together what'd happened. His arms wrapped tightly around Jason, and he held him. 

That was when Jason's crying was unmuted, and Bruce could hear the heartbroken sobbing. He could also hear Dick's murmuring, reassuring little sounds, and soon he was softly singing a song that he'd learned in the circus.

Bruce's heart broke for Jason, and he knew he'd do everything he could to protect him. To make him not feel like this was the end of his life.

For now, though, he let him be comforted by whom he wanted to be comforted—Dick. And he stood just outside the doorway, knowing this was a challenge he could not beat away with his fists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I hope this is good. Ugh. Let me know if it sucks balls. *headdesk*
> 
> Kinda got inspired by Mia Dearden, who, yes, Jason will eventually get to meet. She was the first HIV-positive superhero, I believe. And he's probably going to feel a lot of guilt over this, cause he'll feel like he did it to himself.
> 
> Also, cause while some people might go the route of, 'An evil drug dealer forced him to take drugs!!' the fact is, most drug-dealers ain't going to give it away for free, much less force it on people. That shit costs money, and there are usually enough willing customers. Plus, addiction is not instantaneous, and can take months to form (but still don't do drugs, cause you can die instantly and all kinds of shit can happen).
> 
> I met some drug-addicted kids before, but I didn't get to know them that well. Psych wards of children's hospitals are a decent place to run into them. However, the trick with that is that usually, if you're a child, you're there for one of three reasons--severe abuse, suicide attempt, or serious anger issues, like hurt yourself you were so fucking mad kinda stuff. Knew one person who punched through a glass door and was all cut up. So, yeah, unless an addicted kid fits one of these three, they'd probably go to a rehab center, or their parents'll try to help them. 
> 
> Anyway, long AN. Sorry. Gah, I hope this isn't cheesy or some shit like that, god...
> 
> OH, oh, and HIV is generally not noticeable, but, very often, one'll have 'the worst flu ever' for about a month after contracting it, with a good week of no symptoms. Also, you can't know if you're infected most of the time until a few weeks later--preferably three months later, cause that's like, 97% of infected people testing positive when they do have it. Some people, it takes like six months, though.


	11. D as in Dick, Damian, and Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Big D and Little D day! Dick does his best to bond with Damian, while Bruce welcomes the small respite from taxes.

“We're going to do something fun today!”

Dick was grinning like he'd swallowed a sunbeam whole. Bruce glanced up from his work, balancing the books at the dojo (what with all the tax codes and crap, it felt like it was his second or third job) on the old laptop, and briefly smiled at the skeptical look on Damian's face.

“Does this 'fun thing' involve ridiculous amounts of your emotions?” he demanded, “I am not watching you cry through Up again--”

“Only the beginning, Dami, and everyone cries at the beginning of Up. Even Bruce cried, right Bruce?” Dick was looking over at him, that confident smile at his face that seemed to have struck with adulthood and the complete settling into his body. Not that he'd ever truly been at odds with his body, but there was a certain level of 'Yeah, this is mine and it's fantastic!' that was attached outside of the acrobatics and fighting his body could do now.

“ _Father_ would never cry at a movie, especially not a stupid one about old people--” Damian started, but Bruce said, an amused smile tucked away,

“Yep. Cried.”

Damian looked aghast. He sputtered a little, then turned towards Dick with a cool, “-tt-. Father only says that to make you feel better. He is strangely affectionate towards you.”

Dick didn't rise to the bait, instead saying rather easily, “Dami, come on. It's not Up, I swear.”

“Then what is it?” Damian eyed him suspiciously, that gap in his teeth that happened when a baby tooth (thank god not a permanent tooth) was knocked out hidden in his frown. Bruce wished he'd smile; he found it endearing, what with the gap. He still remembered a few such teeth with Dick—and mostly dental work with Jason. The kid had not exactly had almost any oral care in his life, and he was lucky they hadn't given him dentures.

Tim was pretty much past that by the time they ended up fostering him.

So, his bookend sons were the ones with the cute spaces in their smiles—if Damian would smile when he wasn't beating the shit out of someone, anyway. Smiling became far less cute in a killing grin on a face speckled with blood.

“Okay, Dami, you're not going to believe this--”

“I highly doubt that.”

“But we are going to have a Big D and Little D day!” Dick was grinning.

Damian said, rather flatly, “That sounds obscene.”

“Sh. No, Damian, don't. It's perfectly fine,” Dick said, though his eyes were twinkling and it was apparent he was teasing him. “Now, we're going to go to the park to feed ducks--”

“Useless, obnoxious creatures--”

“And then get ice cream at that little stand, Chang's Ice Cream Parlor--”

“As if I wanted to see you smear Superman ice cream all over your face--”

“And go to a movie--”

“Movies are ridiculously fake and unrealistic--”

“And then---get this—watch fireworks! They're setting them off for the Mayor's party, so we're gonna watch from up high!” 

“Hmph.”

Dick was not oblivious. He obviously could hear Damian's negative responses. But because he wasn't oblivious, he also knew Damian actually wanted to do it, just couldn't admit to being a child and wanting to hang out with his older brother and do 'unproductive' things.

Bruce smiled to himself at the scowl on Damian's face, mentally predicting his answer.

“Well, since you seem to have your heart so set on it, and our teamwork will be compromised if you're upset--”

Bingo. Somehow relate it to work.

“Awesome! We're going to have a great time, Damian. Bruce, where's the old bread?”

Bruce pretended not to be paying much attention, clicking on his screen, knowing how his youngest felt about being 'caught' in moments of caring even a little. “In the kitchen—it's sourdough. Tim mistook it for your favorite, and since it was day old, he got it. Enjoy.”

Dick grabbed the loaf, which absolutely no one preferred in this family ('bitter enough already without sourdough, thank you,' as Jason had eloquently put it ages ago), and shoved it into a bag. He nodded to Damian, grinning fondly.

Damian pointedly looked away, but Bruce still caught the look in his eyes—he was pleased, felt loved, and didn't necessarily know how to deal with it.

“Hey.” Bruce caught their attention. “No killing ducks.” 

He offered a smile at Damian's scoff.

Dick apparently felt a bit silly, because he promised, “No innocent duck shall die during my watch!”

“You are a duck, just go!” Damian snapped, and they went out the door.

Bruce smiled to himself. Dick was more than smart enough to trade barbs with Damian—but that wasn't Dick's purpose. It was to make Damian feel safe. It was to show that it was okay not to lash out every time there was the chance of vulnerability, verbally or no. It was to show that he cared about Damian.

Sipping his coffee, Bruce settled in on the next item...and wondered how plausible a Big D, Little D, and B day might be.

No, he had work, and they deserved their time together.

He put on another pot of coffee, and sighed at all the paperwork still necessary.


	12. Orphan Number Three: Timothy Jackson Drake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim Drake is brought under Bruce's wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intro of Tim Drake! His stalkerish ways aren't introduced in this chap, but you shall see. :)

Tim came to him at a time when he needed him most—and vice versa.

He hadn't wanted to take on anyone else. He was, frankly, wallowing in grief, empty house, empty life. He hid it well enough from his students, he believed, even though Babs would gently try to talk to him, to get him to reconcile—she was the only one involved in his other life that was still there.

He pushed her away, reminders too poignant.

That was when Ms. Walker, the social worker who worked with his family currently, approached him. She had already offered her sympathy—this was something different.

There was a boy who she was having difficulty placing—not because he was a problem child, so much as she was worried he would be swallowed up and disappear in another foster home. Bruce had empty beds—he had Dick, didn't he? Just take him for at least the week, until Ms. Walker could find somewhere better.

And Bruce almost refused, almost insisted that he couldn't take a kid right now, that any kid would be better off without him.

Then Ms. Walker showed him a picture.

A skinny little kid—he would have believed him ten at the oldest had she not said he was twelve. His blue eyes were looking at the camera like he didn't know how to react—like he didn't like being on this side of the camera. There was something heartbreakingly lost in his blue eyes, and Bruce felt, all right, he could do it for a week—this boy clearly needed not to be thrown into a crowded foster home.

Timothy Jackson Drake was his name.

Ms. Walker had shared his file with Bruce, a relieved look on her face. He had a history of abuse, but not like Bruce had dealt with before, for the most part—he was left to be 'self sufficient,' a trait his parents valued above all else—along with not having to be the parents.

He was emotionally and psychologically abused—and sometimes physically, which was what had finally brought him to their attention.

His dad had lost it. Tim had done something, and his dad had lost it.

Bruce's jaw clenched at that, as he was shown a couple of photos of the damage—none on the face, as if Jackson Drake had realized even in his 'uncontrollable' rage that the face would be obvious. The back of his head was bruised, the purple barely evident under his dark hair—his shoulders were bruised with hand-shaped marks. 

The X-ray showed a cracked skull—not enough to do serious damage, but Tim would potentially be in a daze, and Bruce would have to keep an eye, make sure he didn't flip his head upside down or anything.

He agreed, and Tim arrived later that day.

The boy had a state-issued green duffel bag—it was a program that Bruce had helped with more than once, managing to give time where he couldn't really give much money. Before that, kids had had to shove a precious few items in garbage bags.

Tim was silent. He simply looked around, as Ms. Walker handed Bruce his medicine—painkillers.

When Ms. Walker left, he found Tim hadn't moved more than three feet away from the entrance, eyes taking in every detail, it seemed, examining the place without daring to touch it.

“Come over here, please, Tim,” He'd said, hoping he wasn't being too gruff. He didn't feel like he had a lot of emotional energy for Tim, but he would try—the kid deserved that, and it was only for a week anyway.

Tim did, eyes squarely on Bruce's chest. Like he was not allowed to look higher. Bruce sighed, and leaned down a bit, to Tim's level. As he suspected, Tim's eyes simply darted lower.

“Hello. You heard Ms. Walker introduce me as Bruce Wayne—you can call me Bruce if you want to.”

“You're...an adult,” Tim said, a bit uncertainly, like there were rules but he also didn't want to break Bruce's rules either.

“Tim, it's fine. I told you it's okay to call me Bruce, so it is. I wouldn't tell you something that's not true, okay?” Bruce felt bad for the kid. He was clearly used to something different from adults, as many of the kids in the foster care system were.

Tim nodded. “Yes sir.”

“Bruce.”

“What?” Tim blinked, confusion entering his eyes.

“Bruce, not sir,” Bruce said, as gently as possible, even as his body said, 'Go back to bed. Deal with Tim tomorrow—he'll be fine.'

Tim nodded, eyes tracing the floor.

Tim was...different. He slipped away shortly after being introduced to his room, and Bruce didn't realize he wasn't anywhere he knew of until it was dinnertime and he was finished cooking up ramen (with eggs and things in it, he wasn't a horrible parent even if he didn't have the energy to do something better) and he didn't know where Tim was.

He wasn't in his room. He wasn't in the dojo area, or the kitchen, or the other bedroom. Bruce's heart had started to beat a little faster.

Where had Tim gone?

He went into the bathroom, which was empty—and then he noticed, shoved and barely fitting behind the toilet, a plastic laundry basket full of things like deodorant and shampoo—which normally went in the closet.

He sighed in relief, and gently knocked on the closet door. “Tim?”

He could hear a slight shuffle, but no words.

“It's okay, Tim. If you don't feel safe, it's okay. I need to keep an eye on you, because of your head injury, so I would prefer it if you didn't stay in there, but how else can I make you feel safe here?” Bruce waited quietly for an answer.

A flush-faced Tim opened closet door, somehow, from where he was jammed under the bottom shelf. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--”

“It's okay. I'm not mad,” Bruce said, leaving some space between them. 

“It's childish, I'm sorry,” Tim mumbled, standing but with his arms protectively over his body.

“Tim, you _are_ a child—and it's not childish, either way. Normally, it would be fine—it's just that you can't be hidden with your head injury. Okay?”

No response.

Bruce sighed. “Would a blanket help?”

Tim bit his lip, then nodded.

Soon enough, Tim was cocooned at the table, and somehow eating, spoon sticking out of the blanket and bringing the food to his mouth.

Bruce didn't press. Didn't demand he talk about his trauma or his fears. Tim had probably had enough control taken from him for one lifetime—one of the features of his parents choices. Despite neglect, they still expected him to follow rules, to present himself as a persona in public at times.

It was just good he wasn't using that persona here. Bruce felt this was a good sign—or that his head injury and the trauma was affecting him very strongly.

Tim turned in early.

He was quiet, quiet enough that he was probably sure Bruce didn't hear his crying. Bruce's heart ached for the boy, despite the fact he'd been sure he couldn't feel so strongly anymore. He wanted to hold him, to make him feel like the world hadn't been ripped out from under him—but he could not, would not initiate contact without permission, and whenever he entered the room to check on Tim, the boy went utterly silent and still, his body language practically screaming, 'No. Go away.'

So, for now, Bruce didn't intrude.

He did, when the whimpers of a nightmare broke through, enter the room and gently wake him, and got those blue eyes turned on him finally, utter despair and fear in them.

Tim curled himself up tightly in his blanket, as though it protected him, and said, ever so softly, “Please don't leave.” He looked horrified the next moment, and opened his mouth to back pedal, but Bruce caught it in time.

Bruce replied, “It's okay, I'll stay. I'll read. I'll sit right over here, and read, okay? Are you okay with that?”

Tim gave a very hesitant nod, like he couldn't believe he'd dared to ask such a huge favor of Bruce.

Bruce wanted to reach out, put a hand on Tim's head or shoulder, and tell him this was what Bruce was supposed to do, how parents were supposed to be. But Tim was in shock and on pain meds and not in a place to understand.

Plus, his past did not allow much touch, and he would probably let him even if he didn't want to be touched. And Bruce didn't want that.

So Bruce sat still in the armchair squeezed into the corner of the room, trying not to remember Dick and Jason here, shoved into one bed despite there being two, or working together on their essays—Dick was preparing to enter college at that point, or excitedly taking turns on the old Gameboy Advance, alternating between helping each other with the game and trying to make the other lose.

His heart clenched, but he tried to exude calm. Safety. And opened his old copy of King Lear.

Eventually, Tim stopped pretending to be asleep, and actually fell asleep.

That was the first night. After that, Bruce found he couldn't part with Tim, that Tim needed him and he needed to be needed, so it was actually a relief when Ms. Walker asked him to keep him longer, as things weren't working out the way she'd hoped—he'd keep him as long as he needed to, he assured her.

Which was supposed to be weeks, since his parents were in court and might regain custody.

But of course, things didn't work out that way in the end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would describe Tim's household as not merely neglectful, but controlling at the same time, with a sort of chaotic, abusive environment going on. There were days when he could slip away and roam the streets--and days when it wasn't okay to so much as blink wrong.
> 
> Thanks to this, Tim is very sensitive to cues and such, since he had to be to survive. He's also dissociating a bit, at this point. At the same time, he doesn't understand 'the rules' in the Wayne household, especially since he expects them to be mostly unspoken and frequently changing, and that's just not what the Wayne household is like at all. Even if it's only Bruce in it atm.


	13. Snowbirds Get Shot Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy Harper is a boy that Bruce has worried about for years--and it seems he was justified in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda a different take on "Snowbirds Don't Fly." Enjoy!

Cass and Tim were surprisingly, well, _cuddly_. It was clear to Bruce that Cass wasn't looking for anything sexual, and neither was Tim, but Cass was also a very physical person, and had quickly picked up on Tim's screaming signals for affection.

And had gotten past his words, which often said something to opposite effect.

It was one such night that they were next to each other on the couch, Tim's eyes shut as his head lolled on her shoulder and Bruce dozed in the old recliner—which was more than easy to sleep in, honestly, given that it was very padded, reclined very far, and had a lot of space—it had once belonged to their neighbor, an elderly overweight man and his wife. He'd literally gotten it to sleep in, managing to get insurance to cover it at the time.

He'd passed on a few years back, and when Bruce had approached his wife, Mrs. Kimberly Greene, about Harold's old chair, because he desperately needed another bedroom opened up so he could bring in Cass—she offered it, smiling softly and in remembrance of her husband, saying that she was glad Bruce did what he could to help people.

So, Bruce slept in the 'living room' now—while Tim and Cass often did too, though they had beds and he encouraged them to use them.

At that moment, however, Cass's eyes snapped open—a movement barely noticeable, but Bruce had picked up on what alerted her too.

They lived on a fairly busy street, but they were used to the sounds of traffic and could pick out other sounds—such as the creak of the porch step.

Bruce was reluctant to wake Tim, given that the boy had pulled another two-days-worth of all-nighters, surviving on cheap coffee, so he gave Cass a look that he would check it out, and wake them up if it turned out to be big.

She gave the slightest of nods, sort of protectively pulling her arm out while gently pulling the blanket up further on Tim.

Bruce grabbed his baseball bat, just in case, because weapons were a _very_ good advantage in a fight, and frankly, anyone breaking into his house, he was okay breaking some bones.

No one attacked his kids on his turf. They needed to feel safe here.

He would have freaked out when the screen door slid open (properly oiled) and a key clicked in the lock had he been a lesser man. Dick was upstairs in bed, sleeping off his 19th birthday.

Which had mostly involved an awful lot of homemade angel food cake and strawberries, since Bruce was not a fan of alcohol or anything all that crazy—though they did watch all the Back to the Future movies.

But the door opened, a little jerkily, and then he was faced with a familiar redhead—Roy Harper.

He relaxed, setting down the baseball bat quickly as Roy nearly collapsed in the doorway. He could smell the sweat on him, the despair seeming to simply waft into the room.

Cass looked rather horrified.

“I'm sorry...I'm sorry...I didn't know where else to go...” Roy was saying, and his voice sounded both dead and full of emotional pain.

Bruce got him to his feet, helping him over to the couch, heart giving a little twinge for the boy. He had no doubt this had to do with Oliver Queen, the Green Arrow—and had honestly expected a day like this to come, to some extent.

“It's okay, Roy. Just sit back.”

“Can't—can't sit, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--” Roy said, burying his face in his hands. They were shaking.

He was barefoot, Bruce realized, wearing a hoodie and jeans.

It was definitely not barefoot weather, and Gotham was not a barefoot kind of place.

“How'd you get here, Roy?” he said, nodding to Cass to go get Dick.

Dick was probably the one that Roy would want to see—they were fairly close, all things considered, and Roy had been confiding in Dick for a long time. What Dick would tell him, Bruce didn't like one bit.

“Bus—yeah, a bus.” Roy growled to himself, standing up abruptly, moving all his limbs sort of slowly and a pinched, pained expression on his face. He looked like he would start sobbing any second now, and there was a sheen of sweat on his brow, a shiver in his body.

Bruce knew what this was, and it was painful to see.

Roy was somewhere between two and one and a half years younger than Dick. It had rankled him to meet the eleven year old boy several years back when Green Arrow had come to Gotham following a lead, but then, Arrow had insisted that Roy was both well-trained and mature for his age, and Bruce had to remind himself that he had started Dick out as Robin younger.

Seeing the two work together, if you could call it that, was agonizing, though. Queen didn't seem to remember to do things like _look out for his tiny child partner_ , and Bruce was honestly surprised nothing truly horrible had happened to Roy.

Well, until now, clearly.

Seventeen years old and on the run—but probably not from the law. Barefoot and clearly, quite clearly, in the midst of heroin withdrawal, or another opiate.

Cass had gone a bit ago, and Tim had woken up, the boy slipping into the kitchen silently to make tea. He still moved a bit like a zombie, but Tim still seemed to understand what was going on, all of fourteen years old—and a year or so of being Robin under his belt.

Dick came lightly down the stairs, though his pace was quick.

“Roy! Roy, are you okay?”

“No, no, I very—I am not okay,” Roy said, and Bruce took in the long, red scratch marks on his face—as well as a purpling bruise on his jaw. His blue eyes took on a pained quality once again, and he murmured, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

Dick recognized it too, letting out a quiet, “Oh god, Roy...”

Roy winced at that, seeming to curl in on himself. Like now that they knew for sure, they were going to be mad, to shame him. “I'm sorry,” he said, voice raw and his tone saying, 'I know. I know, I'm a piece of shit.'

“Where's Queen?” Bruce said, careful not to make his tone accusatory—it would have been at _Queen_ , not Roy, but he doubted Roy would know the difference.

A despondent look like Bruce had never seen crossed Roy's face, and that was about when he couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They slowly coursed down Roy's face as if they weren't apparent to him, as he said, almost conversationally, “He knows. He knows, he's not okay with it, said to leave—he wouldn't want a junkie for son.”

“Oh, Roy, god,” Dick was by his friend immediately, wrapping his arms around him. “Roy...that's not okay, you know that, right?”

Roy didn't acknowledge this.

“Did he make you leave?” Bruce's eyes lingered on the bruise, a rather ugly one that must have been made with a significant amount of force—and training, such as a properly made fist.

Roy nodded, a bit dumbly, but then he spoke. “Should've seen his face. Should've seen it. Never—he couldn't hate anyone that much, I thought.”

He began to move his arms again, despite being in Dick's arms. He was restless, and yet, he looked completely exhausted.

Bruce's heart clenched—anger and strong feelings for Roy, for a teen being thrown on out on the street for addiction. Especially given that Queen had undoubtedly contributed to this. “How...how did it happen? How long have you been in withdrawal?”

Dick got Roy to sit down on the couch, and he positively slumped against Dick.

“It's...it was supposed to work. I wasn't supposed to—I was supposed to infiltrate. Get the—the, the information, get it out, get it to Arrow—move on.” Roy's eyes seemed to spark with pain, anger. “But I was stupid—always stupid, I almost got caught, had to prove--” his voice choked a little. “Instant hook.”

“When was this?” Bruce questioned, seeing Roy's hands move restlessly.

“Just, um—six months. I hid it until now—almost, could have made it, I know I could have, I almost—I was tapering, I was, I'm sorry, I'm sorry--”

“Sh, Roy, it's okay—you don't need to apologize to us,” Dick said softly, though it was clear he was in great pain over his friend. He looked like he wanted to hold him tightly to his chest, to make it all go away—but he couldn't, and this was obviously hard for him to swallow.

“When did the withdrawal start?” Bruce needed to know. He needed to plan, or else he wouldn't ask.

Roy swallowed thickly, saying rather quietly, “I—I don't know. Today? Sometime. Yeah, today sometime, I'm sorry--”

Tim returned with tea at that point. He handed it to Bruce silently, and retreated to the computer/dining/kitchen area, where Cass could barely be seen perched in a rickety old dining chair. 

“Okay. Have you vomited?” Bruce asked.

Roy nodded. “Yeah. Twice, at least.”

“Then you could get dehydrated. Drink this,” Bruce said, handing him the tea.

Roy nearly spilled it all over himself, his hands shaking badly. Mostly, he looked dejected, in despair, and that, Bruce knew, was the worst part: the feeling that it would never get better.

Bruce clenched his teeth to keep from cursing Queen's name in every language he knew—the most prominent he knew being Spanish, Cantonese, and less so Polish, not counting English. He wanted to make Roy feel better, but nothing was going to do that but time—however, they could help.

“You can stay here as long as you need—and we'll help you try to get clean. I know you're trying, and I know it's not easy,” Bruce said, voice softer than normal.

Roy looked positively relieved, while still looking like shit, and managing to get the tea in his mouth.

Dick gently helped guide the cup, after all.

72 hours. That was what they got Roy to survive.

That was the breakthrough—72 hours of sleepless, restless Roy, of his suggesting every so often that just a little wouldn't hurt, then immediately looking ashamed, then trying again, vomiting, lying on the couch unable to stand it any longer but unable to sleep, shaking, crying, even crying for Oliver at one point, which nearly killed Bruce.

That man didn't deserve to have anyone wanting him there in a weak, vulnerable moment like this.

But they got through—and for the moment, Roy was an addition to the household, his depression hanging over his head like a dark cloud.

Bruce didn't know he would be all right. But like hell he was going to give up on him, or have to say later he hadn't done all he could and now Roy was dead.

He could not handle such a thing over his head—unlike Queen, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed with ages to make everything fit. DC canon seems to indicate (at least pre-52) that Dick and Roy are roughly the same age, but yeah... Kinda realized I'd have to finagle things. :P
> 
> Apparently, heroin withdrawal ain't quite the screaming, crawling mess that it is portrayed to be on TV--also, it can't kill you. Presumably, you can still commit suicide because of it, but yeah. The biggest effect of heroin withdrawal is psychological, this despairing feeling that you will never, ever be happy again--plus having to face whatever painful thing that heroin allowed you to escape.
> 
> It's a lot of joint and muscle pain, chills and shivers, vomiting, jitters--and the biggest thing: an overwhelming depression. It's been described as being like a bad flu, but with the knowledge that if you could just get your hands on some more heroin, it would go right away. 72 hours is typically how long it takes to get out of the major stuff, but shit like depression continues on. Also, you don't usually get to sleep during this period, feeling both exhausted and unable to sleep--restless.
> 
> So, yeah. Also, of course, Roy is very upset about being rejected by the most important figure in his life. (Yes, I don't like Oliver, why?)
> 
> Also, yay, Cass! I am still figuring out her backstory, cause, uh, some stuff is just not going to work, but yeah. She showed up a few months ago at this point, and is still dealing with a lot.
> 
> And rules with foster care are quite clear: up to maybe five, boys and girls may share rooms. Older than that, they must have separate rooms--no exceptions. So yeah, Bruce sacrificed his room to take her in. :)


	14. Home's Cool!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very bad school system combined with Dick's general lack of doing well in a school setting make Bruce take a step he never even dreamed of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on *some* of my experiences. Honestly, more based on my atheist homeschool friend's, as Bruce's reasons and methods are way more similar to her parents' than mine, but yeah. She's pretty great. :)

It wasn't that Bruce had ever set out to homeschool. But, he hadn't exactly set out to be a father either, and that put him in a whole new position.

Dick was almost ten, and coming home with bruises and scrapes every day. He also came home with homework he didn't understand, and a desperate tiredness and feeling of having been trapped all day.

“They just have you sit there, for hours—even when you're done. I hate it. I hate fourth grade, I hate books and I hate reading.” Dick had dramatically thrown himself on the couch.

What Dick was used to was moving at his own pace, as well as, well, _moving_ , period. His parents had been his teachers, along with some other members of the circus, given that he wouldn't exactly be anywhere long enough to finish out the school year or get a consistent education.

It troubled Bruce to hear this from Dick, because he was an intelligent kid and clearly enjoyed learning things. He sat down next to him, sighing. “Are you getting in fights again? You know the first rule--”

“'Fighting is the last weapon in a martial artist's arsenal,' I know. I know that, Bruce, but they're just so stupid! They keep saying I'm gay and pushing me and drawing dicks on my school books!” Dick groaned, rubbing at his eyes with his hands. 

“You can't get into so many fights, Dick. You'll get kicked out of school,” Bruce sighed.

“Have you ever _been_ to school? I'd like that a lot,” Dick said earnestly. He threw down a math textbook onto the other end of the couch—a dick in black sharpie was across the cover.

That was what made Bruce consider alternatives, and begin doing research on the dinosaur computer.

Private school was out of the question—yes, there were scholarships based on need, but it was the middle of the school year and Dick had poor grades due to his hatred of the school. It was understandable, really—it was frankly a bad school.

It was one of those schools where they sent the brand new teachers to learn how to teach—some of them never succeeding, but apparently, who cared if they failed to teach if the children were poor? Once they got their experience, the good ones were out of there, and the bad ones stayed or moved on to other jobs.

And with such bad teachers, many kids didn't even _want_ to learn. If you had a teacher who couldn't comprehend why you didn't do your homework, never once taking into account you might've been hungry or cold or unable to get a pencil, never considering you or your family or both were in emotional turmoil or dealing with a lot of shit, then of course you weren't going to connect.

Bruce still remembered his earlier experiences, after the deaths of his parents. Around nine and ten, he was present at school, but he certainly didn't learn anything. Going through three or four foster homes at that point, which was not the most extreme thing for a child like him, he was at a loss of how to cope, and his teacher had not been kind.

No, Ms. Hope Smith had chirped at the class at the beginning about 'reaching their potential'--never explaining what precisely 'potential' meant to a group of confused nine year olds who didn't get much reading material, not even taking into account a desire to read.

She set to assignments that just didn't apply to their lives—if you had thirty dollars and your parents said you could buy three of the items in the pictures (a doll, a toy car, a TV, a VHS tape, so on and so forth), which would you buy?

Not only was thirty dollars, free to spend, an unfathomable amount to Bruce and most of the kids in the classroom, none of the things Bruce would buy were in the picture. So, stubbornly, he added his own: a big, fluffy coat, a big sack of groceries for his foster mother (including his favorite—rice krispy treats), and he decidedly added the one toy (or at least, he considered it a toy at the time) he'd always wanted: nunchucks, like from a Bruce Lee movie. 

He failed the assignment, Ms. Smith smiling at him like he was stupid and explaining away in a condescending tone about how he had to choose _toys_ because this was a fun assignment, wasn't it? It was just for fun. He didn't need to take this so seriously, and besides, those looked like weapons, and that wasn't okay.

It was universally agreed, at that point, that Ms. Smith was stupid, majorly an idiot, and the kids did their best to disrupt and dismay Ms. Smith. Bruce heard her crying one day into another teacher's arms about how she was 'just trying to reach the kids.'

She quit not long after.

He felt a bit bad about that, as Ms. Smith clearly had no idea what she was doing, but probably wasn't a bad person.

Still, he could see similar feelings in Dick's eyes and face to his own as a child. He could see the resentment, the hatred of condescending and incompetent teachers and bullying peers and meaningless busywork.

So, Bruce continued his research.

In later years, online schools would spring up, but this was not quite a thing yet, at least not for their state. And besides which, Bruce wouldn't have trusted it anyway.

Transferring to another public school would not help, as the ones in the area were just as bad, and the good ones were too far away.

That was about when he stumbled on homeschooling.

He was a little skeptical when he found articles on it. What if he couldn't teach Dick all he needed to know? What if he messed it all up? All he had was some community college under his belt—but he was fairly well self-taught. 

And Dick was ten. He could handle fourth grade level work.

He spent the next week figuring out everything—the legalities, lesson plans and how to construct them, socialization, and where he could learn more—because if he was going to do this, he was going to do it to the best of his ability.

The day he dropped by school to pick Dick up, a few weeks later after all the paperwork was handled (submitting a letter of intent to the school supervisor, getting Dick registered for state tests, among others), was a fond memory for him. He carried Dick's bag, and then informed him, as they walked back towards home in the chilly-but-not-dangerous air, that this was his last day in that school.

Dick had instantly believed him, letting out a howl of delight and latching on to him, repeating his thanks over and over. It was rather adorable, and Bruce hoped he'd done the right thing, that this reaction was deserved and not actually the start of academic mediocrity for Dick.

But it wasn't. Bruce kept up the Batman deal, the dojo, the fathering and teaching—and also learning. He had always been smart and knew a lot, but he needed to know _everything_ Dick would need to know in future years, and so some late nights found him leaning over a textbook (chemistry, history, sociology—so on and so forth), coffee mug in hand and taking notes.

And Dick did well. He actually did. He liked learning to begin with, and so it was hardly unusual to find him, thoughout the day, doing things like lying upside down on the couch to read his assignment, learning the multiplication tables through a song Bruce found, doing backflips off the couch when he finished a full sentence in his writing assignment (he still found doing an 'entire two paragraphs' very difficult) or when he finished reading a chapter for history or society and culture.

Naturally, martial arts was mixed in to the curriculum, and though Bruce made many mistakes the first year, he learned fast, and by the next year had an even better curriculum lined up.

And not long after, he managed to find the 'homeschooling community' in Gotham—mostly middle class people who looked askance at his single fatherhood and lack of religious content in his curriculum, but Dick found friends, they took homeschool art classes and the like at the library, and finally, it seemed like things were settling in nicely.

It would turn out to be his general method of schooling for all his kids.

Not much fit a vigilante's lifestyle better than school that could be done at any time of day—or night—after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay homeschooling! I know a bit about the legality of it. Plus, I can't imagine a method that would gel better with the whole fighting-crime-at-night thing.
> 
> As for foster kids and homeschooling, it *can* be done legally, but at the discretion of the caseworker--which, I think Bruce would be able to convince them given how well Dick does. :)
> 
> Aaaand Jason being far behind and suspended more than once before the attempt is made. :P
> 
> But yeah. I feel like this Bruce could be very good at it, given his stronger connection.


	15. Third Time's The Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim approaches Bruce about becoming a vigilante--specifically, Robin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY THANKSGIVING (a day late)
> 
> And for all you non-Americans who don't believe in gratitude, apparently--have a good weekend. XD

Tim's fingers had traced the symbol on the costume, a small bird—a robin. Or at least, it was symbolic of one.

Bruce hadn't necessarily intended for Tim to find out about Batman, but he supposed it was inevitable—and it turned out he'd figured it out pretty quickly, but just hadn't said anything.

“Can...” Tim started, still looking at the costume, but blue eyes quickly turning to gauge Bruce, a constant measuring and figuring out that Tim always seemed to be doing with people.

Bruce knew what he wanted, even if he was having a hard time asking—as he always did. And it hurt a little to think about.

Yes, Tim had been with him a year, and yes, he had been very thoroughly trained in that time. Yes, he was certainly capable of being Robin.

A Robin that the streets of Gotham had not seen in over a year.

Bruce swallowed, eyeing the thick material of the costume. It was made to stand out just enough that people would know who the wearer was—Robin, partner to Batman and not one to be trifled with lightly.

The costume had originally come with a hood, snugly fitted over the head, a mask that concealed the face very well—traces of red and yellow throughout the military-grade thick material. A knife would have a very difficult time cutting through it, and if he fell from a moving vehicle, it was unlikely he would shave off layers of skin and such. It was a basic jacket and pants, with combat boots. 

For Jason, of course, there had been modifications, as he was not Dick and had different needs, but Bruce didn't want to dwell on that right now—Jason was still painful to this day to think about.

Tim saw his throat move, saw how he wasn't responding, and quickly retracted his hand from the costume. Bruce could practically see how his mind was moving, trying to think of the perfect response to repair the situation.

“Tim, it's okay,” Bruce said, wanting to cut that off at the pass. “You want to fight crime, help people, like I do. And that's a good thing. And I know you're ready. I'm just uneasy about you going out there.”

Tim tilted his head to the side slightly, and Bruce could see the hidden hurt—he believed Bruce thought he wasn't good enough. “Dick does it. So does Babs.”

“And both are adults, at this point,” Bruce said, a bit softly. “Both have to make that choice for themselves.”

Tim seemed to consider this, though his eyes darted over to the costume, almost longingly. Bruce knew him well enough to know that he wanted to prove himself, wanted to fit into the family perfectly like every other member—and that meant, to him, fighting crime. Becoming a vigilante.

Bruce wasn't sure, however, if Tim would go out and do it anyway if he said no. Tim could be surprisingly unpredictable at times. Early on, a harsh word from Bruce (and then Babs, and then Dick, as he trickled back into the picture), was enough to send him hiding in his room for the rest of the day, pondering what he'd done wrong and how to avoid it in the future. He could handle people on the street being rude, but people that mattered to him? He clearly couldn't take criticism without believing he was bad because of it.

It was something they'd mostly worked past as Bruce trained him in martial arts, however, correcting him but also praising—a lot. It was what Tim needed, and it was true, too—he might not have had the same natural ability that both Dick and Jason had had, but he was good at it, and he worked hard.

And then Tim had started having both random fits of assertion—and defiance.

It had actually made Bruce smile—where Tim couldn't see, of course—the first time he'd not done the dishes on purpose. He'd done a little frown, and mumbled something about not seeing why _he_ should do the dishes.

They'd discussed it, and worked out in the end that it _was_ reasonable, as it was his turn, but there was indeed a mountain due to Dick suddenly dropping by to bake five cakes for his classmates at college (he commuted at the moment), and so they would work together and then let Dick have it when he got home.

That had been companionable. That had been the best time Bruce had ever had washing dishes, frankly.

Now, he looked down at Tim, and he was sure he could see the beginnings of a defiant episode. Which, in some ways, he saw as a good thing—Tim had barely known how to be openly defiant at the beginning, having been shut down stone cold every time by his parents when he lived with them.

“I...I want to do this, Bruce,” Tim said, a bit softly, not liking to admit wanting things. His fingers hesitantly traced the Robin symbol.

And Bruce knew then that not only did Tim need to fight crime, but that it had to be as Robin. Tim absolutely needed to know he belonged, and he just wasn't ready to craft his own persona—more importantly, being told that the costume that had been passed down through his two brothers wouldn't be his, that they would make something else up, would communicate to him that he wasn't worthy.

It had to be Robin.

And so Bruce let out a sigh, and nodded. “All right, Tim. All right. But I will be keeping a close eye on you, and you will have a set of rules to follow in the field--”

Tim hugged him tightly, and Bruce wrapped his arms around him. “Thank you, Bruce. Thank you.”

Bruce felt Tim's soft hair under his fingers, and he prayed to God that he was doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Felt like I was dead these past few days, as I work retail and had a lot of hours on top of my second job. Like, maybe a full eight hours' sleep--spread over three days. :P Literal zombie yesterday when I got home. Just took a nap in my car today, since I work way early in the morning.
> 
> Anyway, I was having fun figuring out Bruce's reasoning for bringing Tim in after Jason. Cause, obviously, it's a very different situation to the comics, as much of this will be.


	16. In the Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's needs are much different than Dick's when it comes to crime-fighting, Bruce realizes.

It had occurred to Bruce that Jason had costume needs that he and Dick did not about a month or so into Jason becoming Robin.

The boy was a lot more obsessed with being in the thick of things, with kicking ass, than Dick ever had been. Where Dick had grinned, he often caught a snarl on Jason's face.

He'd had to draw him aside and send him back to the van time and again, to meditate and remember that fighting was not an _anger_ thing, but a justice thing. They did not do this to work out their anger, because these were real people and that was dangerous and immoral.

But, as always, Jason got into the thick of things, and this time, Bruce's heart had nearly stopped when a brick, clenched by a thug, hit Jason in the head.

The boy went down, hood torn by the force and blood leaking out—past his face and dripping down his nose and eyelashes onto the ground.

Dick and he took out the rest of the thugs in record time, and Dick was already crouching next to Jason, a 'Little wing, talk to me--' coming out of his mouth when Bruce barked, “BBP Standard, Dick!”

“Ow, fuck,” Jason groaned, trying to blink the blood out of his eyes—they were streaming with tears at this point. Blood wasn't exactly a soothing presence on an eyeball, not mentioning the pain he was probably in.

“Stay still, Little Wing,” Dick said softly, not touching Jason. He looked like he wanted nothing more than to cradle Jason, make him feel better.

Bruce was by their sides in an instant, saying to Dick, “The van. Go get the first aid kit.” He put a gentle hand on Jason's back, saying, “It's all right, you're going to be fine, I promise.”

Jason made a sort of hiccup noise. “Fuck, fuck, it hurts!”

“I know,” Bruce said soothingly, as Dick's boots slammed against the asphalt.

The blood would have to be cleaned up, but for now, Bruce produced a clean strip of cloth from his pockets, and pressed it against the wound, stopping up the blood. He was careful not to touch it, because while his gloves were certainly the right material to stop the blood from reaching him, he would have much preferred sterile, latex gloves.

He did not want to be infected—but he also didn't want to risk Jason getting infected.

He glanced about, and no one was in earshot—the thugs had recovered consciousness and made themselves scarce, as if sensing the mother bear syndrome. “Jason, who am I?”

“Nnngh,” Jason whined in complaint. “You're—fuck, you're Dad.”

That made a painful twinge in Bruce's chest, because Jason usually avoided calling him that. He just nodded, figuring that was definitely more than close enough. He would have been quite happy to be called Dad if he hadn't believed it was the result of a head injury.

Dick arrived then. “Hey, it's okay, you're gonna be fine!” The plastic white of the med kit seemed to chip on being slammed on the ground. Dick's hood and mask may have hidden expression, other than his blue, worried eyes, but Bruce could easily imagine the way he was worrying his lip, trying so hard not to overreact and just put every bit of focus on rescuing Jason.

He truly did love Jason.

“Dick...” Jason asked, sort of whimpering. His voice was embarrassed afterwards, as he said, “My eyes _hurt_ , I can't see!”

“Sterile water, please,” Bruce said, businesslike, to Dick.

Dick had already used hand sanitizer and put on the gloves. “I got it, B.” He used one hand, away from the blood, to tilt Jason's head, saying, “Come on, Jaybird, open your eyes.”

Lenses. They definitely needed lenses, Bruce concluded, as Dick washed out his brother's eyes and the boy blinked rapidly, trying hard to keep his eyes open.

Something that wouldn't obstruct vision in any way.

Bruce got Dick to hold the cloth in place then, waiting for the bleeding to stop.

All the while, Dick was babbling, occasionally singing, keeping Jason calm. “You know how Napoleon Bonaparte invaded all sortsa places? One of em was what's now Hesse! Yeah, there're a bunch of German states, and tons of what we recognize as German culture is mostly Bavarian—but yeah, Hesse, or what was like, two parts of Hesse or something—that's where the mercenary soldiers came from during the Revolutionary war, for the most part! It's a whole complicated history I was reading about the other day--”

Dick didn't care _much_ about history, but he did like stories—which was how Bruce had managed to get him reading it. He started with well-written biography-type history books, and it took off from there.

As soon as the bleeding had stopped, Bruce examined the damage. It seemed like it had cut through the hood and the skin, but not hit bone.

He knew head injuries were particularly serious with children. He swiftly disinfected the area—ignoring, or at least not stopping for, the whine from Jason—and got it bandaged.

Very carefully, he checked Jason's eyes, now clean.

He knew they could hardly afford to go to the ER. If they needed to, they would—but Jason's eyes dilated properly when he shone his light in them, and he in fact seemed annoyed and quite coherent. “Ow, fuck, don't shine that in my eyes...”

Bruce smiled a little grimly to himself. After using sanitizing wipes on the remainder of the blood on Jason, everything contained, he gathered him up in his arms. 

“Dick, please get the rest with bleach.”

Dick nodded, a bit grimly, and Jason's face buried itself in Bruce's chest, as if he felt like he was dirty—like he was some unclean thing. It made Bruce's heart hurt, but they still couldn't afford to leave any bit of his blood behind.

They'd woken him up every hour when they got home, but he turned out fine—thank god. Bruce was grateful for not the first time that his medical skills had come in good use.

That was when Bruce had made the investment—one that left them eating nothing but peanut butter sandwiches for weeks and taking 'scrub-showers'--wet the washcloth with soap and water, turn off the water, scrub, and use a bit more water to clean.

But when the solid helmet arrived, along with somewhat more protective body armor than his and Dick's, Bruce felt at ease—and Jason thought he looked awesome.

It was a solid black helmet, but made so it wouldn't restrict his vision at all. No facial expressions, but Bruce thought it suited Jason anyway.

Watching that jet black head bob over the city, disappearing and reappearing as he flipped and climbed, made Bruce smile to himself.

It seemed to put Dick at ease too. No jealousy there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BBP Standard--Blood Borne Pathogen Standard. It's a thing that most medical professionals follow with *every* patient--treating any contamination with blood and the like as though it could contain HIV.
> 
> And the precedent for the helmet! :D I hope y'all like it. While their costumes are fairly protective against cuts and blood-type injuries, I would say Jason's condition requires just a bit more protection. :)


	17. Orphan Number Four: Cassandra Cain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra Cain's introduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY different from canon. Just so you know going in.

Cassandra Cain was a special case.

It was some time after Barbara took on the Oracle persona. She was at college, but stayed in an apartment in Gotham. 

Bruce kept an eye, not a nosy 'I know what's best for you' sort, just an ear out should Barbara need anything. If anyone kept a true eye on things, it was Barbara—she taught Tim code, having become very good at it due to her time in the hospital with little else to do and an insatiable need to do things.

But one day, she called him—and it was not the usual 'Dick left his stuff here and how's Timmy doing?' kind of call.

“Hey, Bruce. This is going to be a little heavy, so sit down. I was mugged today--”

“Are you--”

“Yes, of course I'm fine. I could have beat them off myself, you know that.” Barbara's voice sounded just a touch chiding, like she was rolling her eyes. Bruce let out a slight huff—even the best martial artist could be caught off guard, or a freak hit got in.

But her words 'could have' set him on edge. “What happened?”

“Well...there's this...child, a teenager, who beat them off for me. She's pretty banged up and scarred and all that, and she doesn't really talk, but she did tell me she has no parents--”

Bruce was quiet where Barbara had seemingly expected him to cut in.

“I...I want to take her in. She's eating Spaghettios on my couch right now, but...you know I have to be 21 to be a foster parent. And, I mean, I know you always managed—still manage, despite not having a lot, but I don't know if I can take care of her...”

Bruce could easily see where this was going. It was six in the morning, so Tim was still sleeping, and Dick was in the computer/dining/kitchen area cramming for a college class that took place at eight thirty AM. Bruce could certainly afford to leave right now.

“I'll be over in about a half an hour. Keep her feeling safe and calm until then.”

Barbara let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. And Bruce? She's definitely not your typical case.”

That was all the warning that Bruce got. He arrived at Barbara's apartment not too long after, after making sure Dick knew to hide the high-caffeine coffee from Tim before he left. (Decaf for that boy when Bruce could help it, after all.)

Barbara lived in a small apartment—two room, which was pretty expensive for Gotham. Even if one of the rooms was a bathroom. She used a divider to mark out a sleeping area and such. It was a decent size, with room for a couch, kitchenette, TV, sleeping area, and computer desk.

At the moment, Barbara was sitting at her computer, tapping away. She looked up at Bruce letting himself in. “Hey. Glad you made it.”

On the couch was a girl, around Tim's age, Bruce would guess, though seemingly similarly small for her age. She was of East Asian descent, or half, given her blue eyes, which seemed to take in every bit of him. She was holding a bowl of ramen in her hands now, done the way Bruce did it—eggs, meat, and other nutritious things to make it worth eating. She also looked like she was contemplating throwing the bowl at him, but her posture relaxed on taking him in and she began slurping it.

She was wearing a hoodie, one with one of the Gotham sports teams on it—kind of ratty, but warm and allowed for growing. Also, it seemed the pocket held a number of items. She was also wearing a pair of jeans that had seen better days, as well as what appeared to be...crocs. Padded in with multiple pairs of mismatching socks.

Barbara wheeled over to him, smiling a bit—it was a little bit of a rueful expression. “Well, I guess she doesn't see you as a threat. That's good.”

Bruce nodded, it definitely was. “So, you say she fought off a mugger--”

“Five muggers,” Barbara corrected. 

Bruce could practically feel the look of surprise on his face, as he turned to look at her once again. She was small, but he was picking up that vibe you got from anyone who seriously knew how to fight—this girl was clearly more than she might appear. “Five muggers?”

“Yeah. I recognized some of the styles she used—she clearly knows several martial arts. But, Bruce—she was pointedly avoiding killing strikes. She could have killed them easily—but she did everything she could to scare them with pain instead. One girl versus five guys—and she didn't even go all out.” Barbara was watching the girl too, a sort of mystified awe on her face.

The girl looked up then, taking in their expressions. Her eyes went from Barbara's face to Bruce's, and then, apparently satisfied, she went back once again to slurping up ramen.

Bruce walked over to her, approaching slowly, and settling onto his knees in front of her. “Hello. My name's Bruce Wayne. What's yours?”

She seemed to know this one easily, the name rolling off of her tongue. “Cassandra Cain.”

Well, at least that meant she could talk. “Where are your parents?”

Cassandra just shrugged.

“She said 'gone' when I asked her,” Barbara supplied.

“Are they dead?” Bruce asked, doing his best to be nonthreatening. He seemed to be doing well, because Cassandra was clearly at ease.

She shrugged again. Clearly a 'don't know, don't care' sort of gesture.

Bruce was considering this. He could foster Cassandra, probably, under the circumstances. She seemed like an abuse victim of some kind, in some way—at the very least, allowing her to roam the streets, seemingly homeless, was grounds for her to be placed in foster care.

“Show Bruce what you showed me, please, Cassandra,” Barbara said gently.

Cassandra obliged, abruptly slipping off her hoodie. All she was wearing underneath was a sports bra, which shocked Bruce a little, but what shocked him more were the scars. All over, and not self-harm or accidental scars—these were battle scars. Ones someone got from fighting with bladed weapons, or getting a gash from a strike or fall. 

And many of them looked quite old.

She slipped it back on, and got back to slurping down the hot soup.

Bruce was frowning, but she seemed to know it wasn't at her. It made him mad to think anyone would do this to a child. “Cassandra,” he finally said, “How old are you?”

She shrugged.

He was already concluding things about her. She seemed very confident, but it was sort of like Tim—she'd learned to read _people_ with amazing precision. But it was also very different from Tim. She was not tentative about it at all, not constantly adjusting to try to survive the situation.

She was a street rat, in some ways, like Jason...but the ability to fight and fight very well had given her confidence.

It was probably the main part to her. The one thing she had. That, and apparently a hero streak of sorts.

“Cassandra, would you like to come see my home?”

She seemed to take in what this meant, and glanced about the apartment and at Barbara. She seemed to calculate, not unlike Tim, but in a far calmer way—and nodded.

That was that.

It was little issue to get her as his foster child, once he figured out the room issue—he simply gave up his. He hadn't expected to take in a girl, but he made it work. And given her background, his social worker was able to argue for her placement with him, that he would be best for her. 

She turned out to barely talk at all—a thing they would need to work on, undoubtedly.

He was glad she wasn't entirely devoid of human speech—a child not exposed to speech of any kind (such as sign language) might never learn. There was no coming back from not learning speech before the age of eight, and Cass, as it turned out, was fourteen.

She fit right in. Dick was every bit of affectionate she wanted, and Tim, while seemingly unsure and nervous at first, as he was with all big changes, was quickly won over.

It would only be a matter of time before Barbara suggested her taking on the Batgirl mantle.

And it would only be a short amount of time before Bruce agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned in the story, there's no coming back from not learning a language before the age of eight. People who end up like that at best learn a few words with little to no grammatical abilities with shitloads of therapy. Since Cass actually needed a telepath to give her to the ability to talk, and since this Bruce would not touch a telepath with 37.6 foot pole...
> 
> Yes, Cass is still trained as an assassin, though. League of Shadows will be showing up in this story, to an extent!
> 
> Hope y'all liked it. I decided to bite the bullet and do it, even if I wasn't one hundred percent on everything yet. :) Also, Steph shows up not long after Cass in this AU!


	18. Bit to the Quick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick returns home after a time away--and scares poor Tim.

One thing about Tim that Bruce quickly noticed was that the boy was a nail-biter.

And Tim just did not do things half-way. There might be tentative attempts at trying to please Bruce and follow rules he wasn't sure existed yet, but when he did something, when he wasn't of two minds about it, he did it and did to the nth degree.

Which was why, when Dick first came home, letting himself in with his key and loudly getting in to the cereal when he didn't find Bruce, Tim had clearly been scared. There weren't exactly a lot of pictures for reference of who was allowed in the house in the middle of the night.

Bruce had been just finishing up a night as Batman, solo. It'd been a couple months since taking in Tim. He'd returned home shocked to see Dick, a kind of quiet tension between them.

Dick swallowed his mouthful of cereal, and looked across at Bruce. There was obvious pain and regret in his eyes, but he was the first to speak. “I'm sorry.”

Bruce nodded, having a little trouble with words. Before he could respond similarly, Dick spoke again.

“I shouldn't have said what I did. It wasn't fair, and god, you've...you're hurt just as much as I am, and...I'm sorry. Me hating you doesn't...it doesn't bring him back,” Dick said, and Bruce could tell he'd gone through a lot in the past few months, that he wasn't over it but that he wasn't willing to cut himself off from his family in his pain anymore.

Bruce could feel a painful throb in his chest, and he said, “You...you had a right to be angry. I should have...it was my fault. He was my son, and he deserved better from me. He deserved better.”

Dick nodded, swiping at his eyes. “Yeah, he did. But it wasn't you—it was the Clown. You still weren't the one who fucking--” he couldn't continue, swallowing thickly. “You're a good dad. You just aren't perfect, and you couldn't know that would happen. Okay? I'm—I still want to beat the shit out of things and scream at people who have nothing to do with it and all that shit, but...we're family. We're family, and neither of us should face this alone.”

It felt like something breaking in Bruce to hear that—the affirmation from someone who _knew_ that it wasn't his doing. Breaking in a good way, like it wasn't healed and it wasn't fixed, but something painful had been dislodged, just a bit.

He probably held Dick too tight—but if so, Dick did the same. And Dick cried on his shoulder, as he had probably cried on Barbara's the months he'd stayed with her. And Bruce couldn't deny his own tears—crying in front of the enemy might be weakness, but Dick was not the enemy, and the pain was real, raw.

It would be like lying to try to hide it from Dick. It would be trying to restrain a moment that shouldn't be.

And Jason had been his _son_ , a mere fifteen years old. As much as a child should not have to bury their parents...a parent should not have to bury their child.

It was a vulnerable moment. Not one Bruce would have shared with almost anyone. Not one he was going to mention to anyone.  
The sound of the closet door moving upstairs reminded Bruce that there was someone else in the house who might be a little freaked out. Bruce cleared his throat, considering Tim should have been in bed.

“Have you met Tim yet?”

Dick looked at him kind of stupidly. “...Tim?” Then he looked horrified. “Oh god, there's another kid?”

For a moment, Bruce froze, just a little, unsure if Dick meant that he was putting another kid's life in danger. That Bruce shouldn't have anything more to do with kids, given how things had turned out with Jason.

But Dick continued, clearly guilt-riddled, “I scared the shit out of him, didn't I? I heard the closet too—god, does he even know about me?”

“A little. Probably not enough to be sure who you are,” Bruce said with a sigh.

They walked up the stairs, a sort of repairing silence between them. Like the bonds that had been rent by Jason's death could finally begin to patch up, even if there were still raw wounds.

The bathroom did indeed have the closet door closed. Bruce walked to it, gently rapping on the wood. “Tim? It's Bruce. It's safe. You can come out.”

There was a clear moment of hesitation, and then the door opened a gap. While Bruce couldn't quite make out Tim's face, he could imagine his intelligent eyes taking in every inch of Dick, trying to decide what to make of him.

“This is Dick. He's my eldest son.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry I scared you,” Dick said, a little tired but still good-naturedly smiling at the boy. Dick was very clearly non-threatening, pure amicable intent.

Tim opened the door all the way, coming out. He was in pajamas, and he still looked a little on edge. “Hi.”

Bruce noted small stains on his pajama top—blood. And quickly picked up where it had come from, very carefully catching Tim's wrists and raising his hands to find bloodied fingertips where he'd apparently gnawed down the nails to nubs—again. He hadn't gotten it quite this bad in a long time. Very sluggish, slight bleeding, but bleeding nonetheless.

Tim looked embarrassed, but Bruce just smiled at him, saying, “Let's get this cleaned up. I don't want you to get infected.”

Dick was quick to jump in, retrieving the medical kit and holding out a hand, saying cheerily, “I'll get one hand, you get the other, we can chat?”

It was agreed to, and Tim, while a bit stiff and unsure at first, was pretty soon delightedly discussing things with Dick. The main topic of conversation appeared to be Star Wars, something Bruce had never been all that interested in, but apparently Dick had watched enough of to carry on animated conversation with Tim.

With fingertips appropriately bandaged up, Tim hesitated by the doorway. “Um,” he said, looking at Dick.

Dick waited patiently. “Yeah?”

“I, uh, never had a brother before.” And apparently this was a lot to admit, because Tim quickly ducked off to bed. It was like he had admitted some deep, embarrassing love—but such a reaction was not abnormal for Tim.

Bruce watched where he'd gone, a sort of sad smile playing across his face. 

Dick seemed to know that look, and he laughed just a little to himself. Not a humorous laugh, but a familiar sort of sound. “I guess you need Tim as much as he needs you, huh?”

He looked a little guilty at that, like he should have been there for Bruce.

“I think so,” Bruce replied, shaking his head. He would never make Tim feel responsible for his wellbeing or make himself dependent on Tim...but they had definitely helped each other. He turned his attention back to his eldest son.

“Tell me what you've been up to.”

And so passed a long night, into morning, filled with the exploits and heartache of Nightwing and Dick.

They weren't at the same place they'd been a few months ago. They probably would never be able to return there. But Bruce was relieved to have his son back in his life, and that Dick was safely back with his family—that was what mattered.

He couldn't bear to lose both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this idea from a Tim headcanon on Tumblr where he bites his nails as a nervous habit and therefore can't open packaging without something like a knife.
> 
> It was pretty humorous, because the whole thing was that in public, where he can't simply pull out a knife, packaging is impossible for him and a sibling has to open it (while teasing mercilessly).


	19. A Safety Delay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra's time table for emotions is a bit different than some people's.

Cass turned out to be the type of person who just did not do freak outs or meltdowns—until long after the cause, anyway. Until it was 'safe' to do so.

She was calm for about two weeks after she was taken in by Bruce. She practiced martial arts on the dojo mats with ease, like she was completely at peace with everything. She ate heartily, showered daily, and seemed to enjoy watching TV—but only on the oldies channel at the moment, which was mostly a sixties-type show called Green Acres as well as the old The Addams Family.

She seemed to find those shows fascinating, unable to really recognize the worlds within but apparently catching how far from reality they were. Green Acres, of course, was the story of a rich businessman from New York who decided to become a farmer—rather against his airheaded socialite wife's wishes. Her voice, which was clearly meant to make her sound ridiculous, seemed to make a slight smile etch itself into Cass's face.

The Addams Family, of course...you couldn't get much further from reality in such old shows. It was a portrayal of a family that embraced everything dark and macabre—but it was a fairly light-hearted comedy at the same time. The humor was mostly in guests reacting to things like children playing with guillotines and the disembodied hand that served the family—who were also rich, and seemed to think the more they pay for something, the better.

It was during an episode of The Addams Family, which Tim was tentatively watching as well while leaning over the back of the couch, that safety had apparently been reached.

The sob had reached Bruce instantly in the kitchen/dining/computer area, a sudden, sharp sound that spoke of a great level of upset. By the time he reached the couch, he could already see Tim sort of fearfully reaching towards Cass, like he wanted to help but just had no idea how or experience with such strong, outwardly expressed emotions.

Tim gratefully backed away on seeing Bruce, sort of taking up refuge by the end of the couch.

Bruce took in the sight of Cass—and he could imagine some of the pain going through her, as Wednesday Addams walked off the screen with a headless doll, away from her father.

Cass was breathing hard, sobs coming out like they hurt, coming out sharp and fast. Loud. Like they had to fight through a plastic layer to get out. Her face was screwed up, and she was sitting on the ground cross-legged, hands clenching her knees, then alternately brought to her face to try to quell the feeling.

Bruce didn't have as much experience with such a thing, but he quietly settled near her, saying, “Cassandra, you can cry as much as you want. It's all right.”

She nodded, still choking out sobs, apparently aware enough to know he was there. That was good.

“Would you like privacy?” Bruce asked, “Or do you not want to be alone?”

Her eyes opened, streaming with tears, and took him in—one instant was all it took. She read his mirrored pain at seeing her like this, saw that he was genuine—and quite suddenly hugged him, burying her face in his chest.

Bruce was not startled, in some ways. Cass had already revealed herself to be very tactile, very much in need of people to care for—and be cared for in turn by. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, thinking of what sort of person would turn a girl, a child, into a fighting machine like this—and then leave her to run loose on the streets. To let her get her body so decorated with scars, her ability to communicate so hurt.

She was warm. She made him think of Dick for an instant, the way she was able to attach to people, care about them, in spite of everything.

“You're safe here. I will take care of you,” Bruce said softly, and he could feel her fingers hold tighter. The tiny girl who could potentially kick even his ass seemed to take him at his word, and he could feel her body not be coiled quite so tight.

She cried for a while, even after the tears stopped and her body only seemed to shudder.

He knew she was more than capable of getting to bed by herself, and she prided herself on being self-sufficient—she'd _had_ to be, spending years on the streets—but he carried her up to her bed anyways. She was clearly exhausted, especially since she just nodded at him tiredly rather than trying to get to her feet.

She was far from done with her issues—this was barely the beginning. Cass had a lot to deal with, years of hardship and abuse to fight—but Bruce felt like she understood that, and it was a good place to start from.

Like he'd done for others before, he said, “Would you like me to read to you? If you'd like to sleep.”

She nodded, pulling up the comforter around her neck and burrowing in. She watched him like she'd made a new judgment, like she knew he was the person to trust. 

It made him wonder if he _was_ the person to trust. If she should put her faith in him. Sometimes he thought he was doing more harm than good with the kids he took in, and Cass...he worried that they would take her. He worried they would deem her too 'developmentally stunted' or 'special needs' and he was still in the midst of being properly trained to deal with cases like hers. He'd had to take a course to continue with Jason's care when he'd been diagnosed with HIV.

If she was taken...he didn't think he could ever make it up to her. He didn't know if anyone could.

Still, he broke out the well-worn copy of Tom Sawyer—Mark Twain was a favorite in this household, this book being the one that many of the boys cut their teeth on—and began reading aloud.

Cass seemed to like his voice, and slowly relaxed, eventually drifting off.

Bruce made sure there was a bar of chocolate and hot cup of soup when she was done napping. He wished she _could_ talk about it with him, that he could understand what was going on in her head, but for now, he would do the best he could—be there for her.

Understanding was not the most important thing right now—support was.

She would tell him when she could, he had no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. This is a thing that is ingrained in me--traumatic or stressful events are passed through with calm and deal-with-it kinda stuff. Then, when it's safe--breakdown.
> 
> It's a pretty common kind of repeat-trauma/stress sort of coping mechanism. It's why I thought that breaking down, say, at work, sounded fake. Like, not hidden away in a bathroom or something. Plus, for me, you can't save yourself if you're panicking. You're risking an awful lot for the sake of your feelings if you just start bawling when somebody's potentially going to hurt you.
> 
> So, yeah. I hope you guys like this! Writing Cass kinda scares me, lol.


	20. Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass and Tim bond over Tim not depriving himself of food and other necessities to survive.

Cass and Tim were a thing. Not a romantic thing, but within a couple months, Cassandra had decided that Tim was essentially hers and she needed to take care of him.

It wasn't codependence, which was something Bruce had been told to watch for, given their homeschooling and general closeness, and—Bruce thought it might actually be fairly beneficial.

Cass was not a mom, but she did have a need to care for people and animals. She had related to him, with limited words and pictures, caring for dogs and cats while on the street, as well as the occasional street kid. Cass had what Bruce would describe as a crusader streak—she would not stand for abuse, and was more than capable of stepping in to stop it.

As her tales seemed to indicate.

And Tim definitely benefited. While Bruce liked to think he was doing a good job with Tim, he realized one day, as Cass carried a bowl of soup to the laptop, that Tim might not have eaten yet that day—and it was nearly midnight.

“No, Cass, 'm busy,” Tim said, red-rimmed eyes glued to the screen. He was researching for a case, more than bright enough to put pieces together despite the relative lack of power in the laptop. It was far, far better than the dinosaur computer of olden days, having been brought with Tim when he came to stay with the Waynes, but it still was a little old and a little beaten up.

It was just a black, simple model.

Cass poked his cheek with the spoon, giving him a look he refused to acknowledge. “Eat.”

“'m not hungry,” Tim said, though his voice seemed to trail off a little as he caught a whiff of the soup—chicken stars. One of his favorites.

Like Bruce had learned early on, Tim did not do things half-way, and this case was no different. He would probably stay up all night to finish if he could force himself to stay awake that long. Bruce had done his best to get Tim to bed on time and such, but a key thing with him was to not force him to do things, most of the time. He had enough issues with control—Bruce tried to get him to make his own choices.

He'd thought that exhaustion would get Tim going to bed—at all. But not so much.

Cass sighed, and put her hand on the back of Tim's head very gently, stroking the hair there. “Eat, Tim.”

This seemed to bring him out of the trance the computer got him into, eyes breaking away from the screen, shoulders seeming to untense just a bit. He seemed to stutter a moment, but Bruce smiled to himself—Cass had undeniably won. She'd connected eating with affection, a strategy she seemed fond of.

He 'begrudgingly' pulled away from the computer, and Cass got him over to the table, balancing the soup bowl in one hand. She smiled at him as he began to eat, slowly at first and then suddenly realizing he was famished.

“Good,” Cass pronounced, smiling proudly. 

Tim nodded, eyes flicking over to Cass—and Bruce could see the obvious gratitude there, even if Tim still seemed somewhat unsure about Cass. “Sorry, Cass.”

She put her hand on his shoulder, an affectionate touch, and shook her head. 

It did trouble Bruce a little—she was the type of person to focus on someone else's troubles when she needed to work on hers. He'd met one or two kids like her in the psych ward—chock full of issues, psychological and otherwise, but constantly playing den mother and therapist to others. 

She needed to work on her own...but he couldn't force her.

And so, for now, she self-healed by taking care of Tim. Bruce smiled to himself as he watched her lay a hand on Tim's arm, him leaning into the touch while simultaneously keeping a very straight face, like no one could realize he actually liked affection.

His kids would heal. And they would have each other to heal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to write a little fluff thing before work. :)


	21. Orphan Number Five: Bette Kane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette, a sort of estranged cousin of Bruce's, is suddenly thrust into his care. She is pretty different from the kinds of kids he's used to taking in.
> 
> But as always, Bruce rises to the challenge and recognizes that each of the kids are unique individuals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, very different backstory for Bette (though, her backstory in canon is...messed up at best, so I felt okay doing this, lol). And since she seems to lack personality in canon, I kinda made one up based on her, but with a little more...depth, I guess. I hope. (I'm not touching New 52 with a ten foot pole--the story's hard enough as it is, lol).

Bette was never in the plan—but then, few of the children that Bruce had taken in ever had been. That was not what he was—only there to help when he wanted to or it was in the schedule.

What was unusual about Bette was the fact she was actually—if a bit estranged and distantly—related to Bruce.

He was the most suitable—and possibly the only available—kin.

The Kanes were on his mother's side. They were mostly died out due to producing children who frankly would be happier not reproducing. Or were happier not reproducing, anyway.

He didn't know an awful lot about the Kanes. His mother had spoken of them once or twice, a sort of disapproval in her tone—and he knew why for sure now.

The Kanes were middle class. And they were obnoxiously stuck up about it. Apparently, despite technically being just as poor, his mother had condescended to marry Thomas, Bruce's father. Thomas Wayne had little to his name but a genuine love for Martha. They could scrape just enough together to get by, as Bruce recalled, his mother having a job that actually paid more than minimum wage and his father working two minimum wage jobs.

Of course, such work was beneath a true, good person in the Kanes' book—retail, waitressing, handyman type jobs—poor people who didn't try hard enough had those jobs, and they were lazy asses who needed to stop mooching off the government.

The Kanes had not spoken to Martha since marrying Thomas, though she did occasionally get Christmas-type cards by mistake or perhaps to as a pretend mistake that was supposed to show her the error of her ways. They had declined to do the slightest in regards to Bruce, citing too many issues of their own to deal with a traumatized child.

Mr. Kane worked long hours in marketing, and was trying so hard to get a raise or promotion—which was needed to get a new car, as their second was ten years old and the rattling sound was obnoxious and who could be expected to live on one car plus the bus system if it gave out?

Mrs. Kane was traumatized herself—by unsuccessful attempts to become pregnant. Did they realize how painful it would be to care for a child who wasn't hers? How much it would be like flaunting her apparent barrenness in her face? She could never be expected to be a good mother to Brian—Bruce, if she had to deal with such trying circumstances.

Besides which, neither of them had psychology degrees, and he sounded psychotic and probably would go mad with grief and the neighbor already had an autistic son who screamed at odd hours—everyone hated those neighbors, what would they they think when Bruce started murdering people's pets?

So on and so forth.

The more Bruce read of their recorded protestations, the more he was almost glad they hadn't adopted him. It might have, maybe, been better than what he went through in the foster care system—but then he wouldn't be who he was today, and these kids would probably have no one else, given the general lack of homes for kids their ages.

So.

Bette was a surprise—the product of forced fertility in older years. Blonde as all get out and apparently in need of a foster home. Her blue eyes reminded him of the other girl who'd been showing up lately—Stephanie. However, Bette's eyes were a colder steel like Bruce's—Steph's were more a soft sky blue, despite her definitely being tougher or more street-wise than Bette.

But Ms. Walker, still in the service and still believing in Bruce's ability to help troubled teens and preteens, brought her. Obviously she hadn't chosen Bette, the courts had, but it was shocking all the same.

Bette was seemingly in a daze, wavy hair in a jumble around her head as her hoodie, which read 'Best Beach Babe' and was white and pink, somehow matched the black shorts that she had apparently decided on despite the weather. 

They were very, very short shorts. And her pink-and-foam flip-flops also seemed to suggest a lack of planning.

But Bruce quickly welcomed her in, his complicated feelings towards her parents shoved to the side. No one should be punished for their parents' actions—and he suspected being their child was punishment enough even if that was the case.

Despite her casual posture, hip jutted out to the side and flicking back her hair as she took in the place with a cool gaze, he could tell she was nervous. Most would conclude she was an airheaded teenage girl, but there was more to her than that, he was sure.

“Hello, Bette. I'm your cousin, Bruce Wayne. You're going to be staying with me for a while.” He gave her a smile, an apologetic, empathetic sort of one.

A huge grin crossed her face, and a chirpy—but clearly fake—tone came out. “Thanks so much, Bruce! Like, I'm sure this'll be great for the week or whatever I'm here. I can even make us smoothies or something while I'm here—acai-blueberry is my best blend right now, and it's full of antioxidants, which is really great for fighting against aging!”

Bruce didn't know how to tell her that acai berries were definitely not on the menu, and blueberries were only on in season. Which it was not.

“Ah, I see. You'll have to show us your cooking skills,” Bruce said warmly.

Bette grinned back again, chirping, “So, where's my room? Do I share, cause I always wanted a roomie—unless, like, they're actually a guy—I mean, not _really_ , but, you know, if they have dangly bits and stuff, is what I mean--”

“No, you do not have a transgender roommate,” Bruce said, perhaps a bit more sharply than he'd intended, given what he'd seen happen to many trans youth and adults in the community, but Bette seemed blithely oblivious. “You do have a roommate, however. Her name is Cassandra. She doesn't talk very much, but she's friendly. Do not provoke her into a fight—it's hard to do, given how even-tempered she is, but you will not win that fight.”

Bette's teeth were very white. “Super! No fighting Cassandra! Not my bag anyway, don't worry, Bruce. Volleyball isn't supposed to be a contact—but I can take my knocks. Got a concussion once—you want to see the scar?”

“If you'd like to show me,” Bruce said neutrally.

Bette was...far more full of cheer, however false, and just general expression, than pretty much any member of the household.

He'd been told her case was undergoing investigation, and not much more.

She lifted her blonde hair, which smelled like coconut, Bruce realized, wrinkling his nose as he got close enough to see—a small, raised line on the occipital part of the skull, the back. Hair apparently couldn't grow there anymore, but it didn't make a difference.

Bette was still smiling. Did she stop smiling, he wondered? “Yeah. Sarah kind of got me in the back of the head with a wrist-guard—don't ask how, it's a crazy story! Like, seriously crazy!”

Bruce nodded, tacitly agreeing. “Do you want to see your room?”

She was all of sixteen, almost seventeen—roughly around Roy's age. 

Roy, who was sleeping in Dick's bed at the moment, exhausted from another day of depression and fighting criminals. Bruce still marveled that Roy could even manage crime-fighting, given how utterly depressed he was most of the time.

Roy was sort of a secret at the moment. There was no requesting care be transferred without revealing identities—and given Oliver's far more financially advantageous position, it was folly.

Oliver could never allow them to take Roy. Roy disappearing without a word? Yes, that was fine, could be explained away. Roy being taken by CPS? Looked a whole hell of a lot worse and could not be explained in a way that made Oliver look good.

But Bette lightly bounded up the steps, duffel bag hitting against her hip. “All right, let's do that. Is Cassandra at school or—Oh! You must be Cassandra!”

Cass stood at the top of the steps, eyes taking Bette in—then darting over to Bruce for some sort of explanation.

“Unexpectedly, Bette needed a place to stay. She's a cousin of mine—she'll be sharing a room with you.” Bruce gave the explanation required.

“Hey, do you have a favorite actor or whatever? I just can't choose _lately_ , but my first major crush was totally Orlando Bloom! I mean, from Legolas to Will Turner, you can't get much hotter. I always wanted to be an elf and marry him—sometimes a pirate too, but I didn't want to get in the way of him and Elizabeth Swann.” Bette was chattering on a mile a minute.

Cass seemed more intent on her body language. And her bare legs, which seemed to intrigue Cass. 

Bruce wondered what Cass was seeing that he wasn't.

Still, Cass gestured for Bette to follow her, and Bruce saw them go into the room. Cass wordlessly took Bette's bag, and dropped it on the bottom bunk, offering a small smile like she knew this was the one Bette would want.

Bette didn't _seem_ to notice this intelligence, though her eyes were far sharper than that. She continued to babble on, as if silence was a sin.

Bruce caught Cass's eye, and got the go ahead to leave. It seemed Cass was not bothered by the talkativeness—he only hoped Tim and Dick would feel the same.

As well as Roy, he remembered, as he passed the open door and saw the mop of red hair stick out of the blanket.

Bette was supposed to be temporary—but they would see how that went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, there will be onesided Bette/Dick--but it won't be a cheap laugh or her whole characterization. It'll actually be a thing related to her and her psychological state.
> 
> I hope this was all right. Figuring out the timeline now that I've realized I'm going to have more than the five Robins as his orphans...yeah. That's difficult as hell, honestly, at times, given my poor skills at such things. Math is hard. XD
> 
> And instead of tennis as her thing, it's volleyball. And the Kanes are those assholes I know. They probably have no idea who they are, and wouldn't even if I revealed my identity, lol. Classism, yay!
> 
> *I'm kinda scared of this one* DX


	22. The Art of Shouting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim doesn't like making loud noises. This interferes a little with martial arts training.

Getting Tim to kiai was a lot harder than Bruce had ever expected.

He'd had timid students before. Sometimes they stuttered a little when first asked to kiai, or blushed a little. But they soon got into it.

Tim seemed humiliated by the very prospect, as if Bruce had asked him to do something obscene.

“Tim,” Bruce sighed, as he watched him soundlessly work his way through the first kata—which he had learned pretty quickly.

Tim's eyes flicked over to Bruce, reading him in that way that Tim did, looking for trouble—what had he done wrong?

It made Bruce want to sigh again, not because Tim was a failure, but because his parents were such failures—more than failures. They weren't just not good parents, they were bad parents. And they had conditioned him to be like this.

“It's okay, but you know what we talked about? With the kiai?” Bruce was not always sensitive with students, in some ways; a lot of them needed or preferred a very tough instructor who pushed them to their limits.

Tim...was sort of not one of them.

The boy's eyes flicked around the room again, as if taking everything in, every bit that could matter to the situation. “...yeah.”

Bruce didn't press too hard, saying, “I know you're trying hard, and you've got very good form, but kiai-ing is important. It provides power to your hits, it intimidates opponents, and it can help dissipate pain. It's an important part of karate and other martial arts.”

Tim's mouth seemed to scrunch a little, that uncertain look to his face—which quickly turned to an ashamed, sort of embarrassed look. “It's...that's loud.”

“Yes, that's the point,” Bruce said, keeping his tone gentle. “It's about power, the right kind, self-confidence, belief in your ability. And you've got the form to believe in your ability, trust me.”

Tim seemed to have some sort of internal debate going on in his head. He seemed to do a lot of talking in there. “I'm not...being loud is...it's not...” He couldn't seem to quite formulate his thoughts.

Bruce realized, with a heavy heart, that the 'children should be seen and not heard' thing was quite literal for Tim—and probably enforced from birth. Young enough that he barely questioned it, or had just started at best.

Loud children were an annoyance to people like Jack and Janet Drake. The idea that Tim was an annoyance had been thrust upon him surely from the time he began to cry and not shut up the instant they wanted.

Bruce crossed the space between them, putting a hand on Tim's shoulder. “It's okay, Tim. It's okay. We'll work up to it, if you want. You don't have to do something you don't want to. But you should know—it's okay to be loud. You're allowed to make noise and take up space and have needs. You're my responsibility, and that means I work to make you feel safe and content—not the other way around.”

Tim bit his lip, but nodded. 

It wasn't clear to Bruce if he was agreeing because Bruce was in charge or because he genuinely saw that Bruce was right.

But they could work on it. Few things changed overnight.

Bruce patted his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Okay. You go through the kata again. Just do your best. I'm proud of your progress, Tim.”

Tim nodded, still biting his lip, but this time seemingly in embarrassment at being complimented. He moved into the kata, a simple enough one, as Bruce stood back.

He hoped he was helping Tim. He believed he was, but it was hard to tell from so close, and at a slow pace.

But when a small, uncertain 'kiai!' came from Tim at the end of the kata, on the last strike, he felt like maybe he was—and let Tim know he was proud with a smile and a nod of the head.

He was pretty sure he hadn't seen Tim look so flustered—and yet, very proud of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kiai is basically shouting in martial arts--specifically karate, but the concept also applies in others. It's something I struggled with. As Bruce says in the story, it helps with all three things: power in the hits, intimidation, and pain mitigation.
> 
> As a child of controlling, chaotic parents, and as someone who clearly has reacted to some extent with dissociation/appeasement, Tim would probably be taught--and go along with--not to make noise in general. (I don't care if that's not grammatically correct :P) He's a clever survivor--some kids would react to the situation by acting out, but Tim would look for ways to ease his situation and, well, survive. Avoid being hit or harmed through being clever and good at reading what his parents want.
> 
> Yes, Tim has elements of Slytherin, why?
> 
> :D Hope you liked it!


	23. The Opening Joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker makes his entrance.

The Joker.

He had emerged from whatever slimy, hell crevice he came from around the second year of Dick being Robin.

And normally Bruce would not assume the worst about a person who clearly had something wrong with them, something that had affected them strongly. Gang leaders were one thing; they tended to be in it for the money, hardened to pain of other people in pursuit of it and power. He knew a lot of them came from tough backgrounds or had originally seen little other option for life, but there was no excusing murder and the other horrible things they did. Primarily, murder was his concern, though, and leaving a population in fear.

But the Joker was a new brand of criminal. Where most of the criminals in Gotham were concerned with money or power, he was concerned with a different kind of power—the kind to warp people's minds, to command their complete, terrified attention. He took joy in seeing people suffer.

In essence, Bruce believed he may be a textbook sociopath.

Not like on TV. The popular depiction of sociopaths was people who did evil things because they were evil. The way they were shown was as cool, morals-disregarding killers and such.

The thing about a sociopath, though—they weren't morals-disregarding. To disregard something, you had to be aware of its existence, to register it as real. And true sociopaths just did not do that.

To the Joker, they were not people. They were just part of the narrative, things for him to manipulate and use.

And this was easily shown with the first crime that Bruce caught him in.

Rumors of horrible murders, the victims fitting no particular pattern except caught alone and without witnesses, had floated about. Bruce had been able to access the police records and discover that these were gruesome, violent murders, with horrific details such as mutilation (of sensitive parts, such as the tongue and lips, fingers, ears, genitals), full on decapitation (with what appeared to be a shudderingly blunt blade), excessive battering, burns on places like armpits and inner thighs and on breasts, and other wounds and tortures that Bruce was glad Dick did not see. Different methods every time, but always a joker playing card. And always a slashed open smile.

But they did catch him in the act one night. And Bruce had been sure he would vomit.

A woman, who appeared to be Indian, was splayed on the ground. Tears streamed down her face, eyes wide open in shock and panic—but not a sound, as her throat was skewered through with what appeared to be some sort of fencing sword—apparently from the duffel bag not far away.

Dick did throw up, falling to his knees involuntarily. Bruce was quickly in front of him, both to shield his view and to shield him.

And the Joker cackled. His face was caked with white makeup, his lips blood red with cheap lipstick, his eyes bloodshot—but calm. But all there, not crazed or psychotic. “Well, well. If it isn't the Batman. The question is, are you supposed to be a vampire bat—or a harmless little fruit bat?”

He laughed loudly at his joke.

Bruce knew if he didn't move fast, the woman was undoubtedly going to die. She was barely, barely gurgling at best, lungs surely filling with blood. He could hear Dick give a small whimper, then retch again.

The woman was not just stabbed through the throat. She was violently battered, cut open in many places, fingers mashed to pulp. The cut-open smile that was the Joker's trademark. It was enough to nearly turn Bruce's stomach too—but he couldn't afford to let it.

Bruce charged forward, no time for a comeback—not that the killer deserved it. The woman—and keeping Dick safe—was far more important.

“No time for repartee, I see?” the Joker mocked, “That's all right, I like a man of few words! Hopefully, those words will be, 'No, stop, he's just a boy!'” 

Rage surged in his veins, as the thought of such injuries inflicted on Dick entered his mind unbidden. Dick should not have been here. He should have sent him back the instant he heard the suspicious noises, the sounds of a struggle.

He wanted to kill the Joker for even suggesting hurting Dick.

But he also knew that rage could get him killed—and then potentially Dick, if the boy didn't get the hell out of there. He managed to tamp it down, and struck the Joker on the side of the head.

The man stumbled, teeth clenched and clear annoyance at being hurt on his face, but he quickly descended back into laughter. “Oh, Batman, tsk tsk, don't you know that hitting someone with glasses is a horrible thing to do?” Then he patted his face. “Hm, hm, where did I put my glasses...? Oh, here they are!” Shattered glass flew at Batman, not in the form of a pair seeing glasses, but rather a large amount of sharp shards of glass that the Joker had apparently been hiding in his large purple coat.

It hit his costume harmlessly, the material thick enough to withstand it. He punched the Joker again, intending to knock him out—or worse.

It wasn't that Batman tried to kill. It was that he recognized that in any given fight, there was always, always the possibility one party would die, even if it wasn't the intention. There was no easy way to incapacitate someone that wasn't a small child or otherwise small and helpless or frail.

The Joker's head snapped back, and he let out a grunt of pain, but he was grinning with blood-streaked teeth when he brought his gaze back to Batman.

The look was eery, stomach-joltingly revolting and the kind of thing that would send most people running. Bruce certainly wasn't most people.

“Robin,” he barked, “Call 911.”

He would not lose the woman if he could help it. He wouldn't wait until he was sure he had defeated the Joker to call either—that was too big a risk on her life. 

He could hear Robin's trembling voice as he dialed on the clunky cell phone and started speaking to an operator.

The Joker cackled, and very suddenly, threw a small object from his pocket, the click of a pin in his hand. Grenade. Right at the woman, who was still alive, even if barely.

Bruce was fast, not even stopping to watch the Joker turn to flee.

There weren't exactly places to put a grenade that it wouldn't hurt anyone, lobbing it away would not help—but he could contain it to some extent. He recognized instantly it certainly wasn't a high-powered explosive, and he scooped it up, putting it in a dumpster, and then, throwing as much as he could on top of the lid.

It didn't entirely work—he knew about grenades, but he had never dealt with one before.

The dumpster flew into the air, and Bruce threw his body over the woman, trying to protect her. It hit the side of an apartment building, the old, dumpy kind, and took out a window and chunk of the wall.

Bruce quickly looked to spot Dick, who was still crouched where he had been, mask pulled up to show his pale, trembling lips as he stared in shock at both the woman and where the explosion had been.

The Joker was gone.

Bruce put his priorities straight—the woman's life, and then Dick's wellbeing. He immediately set to work on the woman, trying to open an airway and allow her to breath.

Thank god, the paramedics arrived fast, and while he'd managed to get her wheezing, gasping in just too little air, they were quick to set in with their experience and know-how.

They didn't demand to know who did this or why Bruce was crime-fighting. Those sorts of details were not really important to the paramedics, and they pretty much never asked Bruce such questions.

They did, however, ask questions such as: 'When was she stabbed?' 'How long has this been in her throat?' 'Are there any drugs in her system?' in the typical firm way that Bruce had come to respect greatly.

He filled them in as best he could, to the point answers that wasted no time.

They'd bundled her into the ambulance within the space of five minutes, helped her breathing, controlling the bleeding, and so on.

Her eyes were dazed, droopy—yet open.

Bruce had hope for her.

Meanwhile, as the ambulance departed, he moved to Dick, gently gathering his eleven year old son in his arms. The boy was clearly shaking, and he clung tightly once he seemed to realize it was Bruce and it was a hug—and then a carry.

“'m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don't be. You have nothing to be sorry for,” Bruce said grimly. He took Dick back to the van, and instead of putting him in the seat next to him, put him in his lap. Dick was fond of closeness, especially when upset, and he had buried his face in Bruce's neck and was holding on for dear life.

They drove quietly.

Bruce promised, as he parked the van behind the house (in their scant, concrete 'backyard'), “I would never let him hurt you. Never. The day he comes close to laying a finger on you is the day he dies.”

“I know,” Dick said, words shaky but firm, in a way, his belief in his father's ability to protect him very strong. “I know, Bruce.”

Bruce held him tightly, promising himself that he would never let this faith down. That he would not get Dick involved in such a thing again. He carried him in, Dick not making the assertion that he was eleven and more than capable of walking. Some days, he might've. Today, he was scared and upset, and he didn't really care about proving his maturity.

Bruce let him sleep in his bed that night. He himself was unable to sleep, kept up by nightmares of Dick with that slashed grin on his face...but Dick slept, safe and sound, apparently lulled by Bruce's presence, pressed up against Bruce and one hand clenched in his night T-shirt.

Bruce would not let down that faith. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just been...I feel like the word horrible can't be enough to describe the day.
> 
> Someone I knew, not well at all, but who was important to my twin--and very young--committed suicide. My client, who is elderly and sweet and essentially a victim of a shitty system to care for both patients and elderly people, is in the hospital and I don't know if she's all right. I am just...probably going to write a lot of dramatic or weird shit. God.
> 
> And some asshole on facebook I was talking to had the nerve to claim that evil does not exist, nor does right and wrong because it's entirely subjective. I flipped my shit, frankly. Yeah, minor stuff like, y'know, levels of modesty and what counts as a morally wrong lie can be subjective, but not what is true evil. It pisses me off that someone can just ignore evil in the world to justify never having to be wrong.
> 
> (We were debating gender roles and how women dress in public and shit. I do that when I'm stressed sometimes to distract.)


	24. Helping Lips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's first kiss doesn't go so well. Neither does his second.

Bruce had gone through romance stuff with Dick. That was inevitable, honestly. Not that Dick just handed out his love to anyone, but that he tended to make friends easily and become close and very committed to them as well.

Some of these friendships became romantic relationships, as could be expected.

Jason had shunned all relationships—almost. Almost. But that was a different thing and didn't relate to right then.

Tim. Tim was in the throes of his first relationship—and it was going about as well, in some ways, as Bruce had expected. Not that they didn't get along or weren't in love. No, it was that Tim had a tendency to catastrophize and freak out.

He found Tim, freshly turned fifteen and apparently having already forgotten about the cake, his favorite pizza (toppings, crust, brand), and the presents he'd gotten—which included a larger SD card for his camera—sitting in a corner of his room, curled up with a book that could only mean he was in a bad, needing-comfort kind of mood—Joan of Arc, by Mark Twain.

He sighed, standing by the open doorway. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Tim looked up, crinkling his face. “I...um.” He seemed embarrassed, face flushing pink as he blurted, “I-I tried to kiss Steph and I sucked balls at it!”

He really must have if he used that kind of language. Tim tended towards the nerdy or dorky rather than the crass or profane. Over a decade of inconsistent mouthwashes with soap had certainly tempered his language.

Bruce smiled softly, saying, “Tim. That was your first kiss, wasn't it?”

Tim squirmed a little, admitting, “Yeah.”

“What makes you think you'd be an expert at kissing before even doing it?” Bruce said, coming across the room to sit on the bed next to the chair.

Tim frowned. “In movies it looks easy. And Dick makes it look easy.”

“Tim, first kisses are pretty much always awkward. Dick's first kiss, he cut his lip on the girl's braces--”

“Oh my god, it was Babs, wasn't it?” Tim said in horror.

Bruce held in laughter, because, yes, it had been. Dick hadn't been sure if their bond was romantic or not, and had wanted to try kissing to find out. Babs had been amenable to it, and so they tried. About a gallon of spit and a cut tongue later, they concluded that no, they were not romantic.

That would change as they eased out of early high school, though.

“Either way. First kisses are awkward. People don't kiss identically, for starters, so you have to find out how the other person kisses, and if you barely know where to begin—well, of course you're going to make mistakes, Tim.” Bruce smiled at his son, who had the book closed now.

Tim sighed. “But Steph'll know I don't know how to kiss now...”

“Did she say anything about it?” Bruce asked. He didn't peg Steph for someone who would, frankly.

“Well...no. But she's probably thinking it.”

“If she's worth having as a girlfriend, if she truly cares about you, she's not going to breakup with you over you being an inexperienced kisser, Tim,” Bruce said gently. He patted Tim on the shoulder. 

Considering he'd heard her call Tim the 'virgin wonder'--particularly after becoming pregnant and Tim had nearly flipped before it had to be explained that no, he had nothing to with that—he felt Stephanie was fairly aware of his lack of experience.

And it also meant Bruce had to put together a much better sex ed course, because somehow Tim had missed it in A & P.

He suspected that textbook had avoided it on purpose and that was why it got glowing reviews from _certain_ homeschool groups.

Tim sighed, nodding. “Okay. If you say so.”

Bruce smiled, and left Tim to his reading or whatever he chose to do.

He could see Bette and Cass on the bottom bunk in the other room as he left, Bette sucking her bottom lip thoughtfully and Cass with her head tilted at Bette.

They'd probably had another of their conversations—Bette was certainly a talker, and Cass was certainly a listener. He nodded at them, they nodded back in greeting, and he headed on.

He only charged up the stairs later when he heard a sort of squeaking squawk and the sound of someone hitting the floor—hard.

Boys' room. All three of them were in there, Bette on the floor, Tim pressed against the back of the chair with a shocked look on his face, and Cass looking highly protective, eyes boring holes into Bette.

“What happened?” Bruce almost sighed, though he could guess.

“I was just trying to help!” Bette insisted. “He said he didn't know how to kiss, and _I_ know how kiss really awesome, so, like--”

“Bette, that's not appropriate,” Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. “We don't invade other people's spaces without permission, and we definitely don't kiss or otherwise molest other people. Do you understand?”

Bette frowned. “I was helping!”

“Don't touch him,” Cass said rather flatly, dangerously.

Tim said, about as red as a beet, “D-Don't do that! Ugh!” And he ran for the door, clearly upset and headed for the bathroom. The sound of him brushing his teeth was shortly heard.

Bette looked insulted, sort of frowning in his direction. “It wasn't that bad. Not as bad as his kissing, I'm sure.”

Bruce sighed, and nodded to Cass to leave the room. She did. Then he sat down cross-legged on the floor next to Bette, where she'd taken a similar position.

“Bette. You know we've talked about boundaries, right?”

She frowned, looking down at the floor. “Yeah, so? It's just Tim, and it wasn't like--”

“No. Tim didn't want you to kiss him, and that means you don't. Full stop.” Bruce's tone took on a more sympathetic tone, as he said, “I know you mean well. But that's not how siblings interact, for one thing, and for another, everyone gets a choice. It's wrong when someone takes that choice away. You know that.”

Bette glared at the floor, but it wasn't anger at Bruce or Tim this time. “Yeah. Yeah, like, I guess so. Whatever.”

“Please apologize to Tim,” Bruce said, “And if you want to talk--”

“Yeah, like, okay, I'll say sorry to Tim, but like, god, not talking about it,” Bette responded, gracefully leaping to her feet and heading for the bathroom.

“Don't crowd him,” Bruce suggested, sighing to himself. It'd been a couple months at best since Bette moved in, and she and the boys had kind of kept an uneasy truce, getting along sometimes and really not others.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bette responded, and he could hear the slight creak of the doorframe to the bathroom as she leaned against it, Tim's brushing having slowed in tempo. “Hey. Tim. I'm, uh, really sorry, kay? I won't do that again.”

“Fine. Just leave me alone,” Tim replied.

Bruce sighed to himself. He would talk to Tim—undoubtedly, this had hurt him, and Bette's apology wasn't going to do a lot to fix that.

Bette moved on, heading downstairs.

It was just another complicated day in the Wayne household.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it's okay. I've had this idea for a bit. Bette's been fun to flesh out. Enjoy, I gotta get the fuck to work!


	25. Unequal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia al Ghul and the brief romantic relationship between Bruce and Talia.

Talia was a beauty, to be sure.

Ra's al Ghul had emerged on the scene, briefly meeting Bruce with an eye that seemed to take in everything about him and his ability to fight, and then sinking into a less visible hand in things.

Dick was a tiny child at that point, not even Robin yet, just taken in as a foster child. Still, he knew about Batman at that point, and he chirpily offered his take on the situation: an immortal man, as they discovered Ra's to be, probably had his brain addled by age. He remembered a demented old man at one of his shows who kept claiming that he was in the war (at that present moment) and so they needed to get him liquor or something.

Maybe Ra's was like that.

But more digging revealed that Ra's headed a whole organization, a secret one—the League of Assassins. It was a startlingly large group of trained martial artists and the like who, well, assassinated people and such. Mostly assassinations, but they also sometimes crossed swords with other groups.

In any case, Ra's had two daughters that Bruce knew of: Nyssa, and Talia.

He didn't know an awful lot about their backgrounds, as their ages were indeterminate and it wasn't like he could just check up on their birth records somewhere. They could be centuries old, they could be decades. No way of knowing for certain.

Both were very pretty, honestly, if he was being objective. It was Talia, however, who engaged him, catching him out and about on his patrol, smirking and asking why he held back so much.

It was one such day that he had just cuffed a man who had been in the midst of battering his wife to a pole, that she showed up again.

Her dark hair was ruffled around her shoulders in waves, and her brown eyes seemed pensive but slightly sparked with mirth. She watched him, saying, “You never kill them. This man just attempted to hit his wife with a 2x4—and yet, you only beat him back. You do realize this has happened before? You've seen the woman?”

The woman was already on her way, taken by a trusted neighbor, to the ER.

Bruce had no doubt that Talia was right. He frowned, stepping away from the man, who was conscious but probably regretting the tooth he'd lost a lot. “That would make me no better than him.”

“He started it. It's not the same,” Talia insisted, arms crossed over her chest.

Bruce looked over at her. “I'm sure he thought his reason for beating her was justified too.”

Talia rolled her eyes, sighing. “Batman, are you saying what you're doing isn't justice? It's not the same as deciding your woman's a cheating whore because she was talking to a male neighbor, is it? You saw the beating with your own eyes. That's reality. He deserves retribution.”

“And he's getting it. Eyewitnesses are going to testify,” Bruce responded, walking back towards the van he used for crimefighting. It hid neatly behind the house, in what Dick sometimes called the 'Prison Yard' in the back. 

There was also a decent size alleyway that Bruce was considering adapting into a training course, but for now, he left it be.

A soft sigh came from Talia once again. “And you think the justice system here will do its job and be just?”

Bruce gave her a look. “I can't do its job for it. A court of one is a tyranny.”

“Ah, but don't they use them for smaller crimes?” Talia replied with a smirk, tossing her dark hair as she followed him. “Are you saying small tyrannies are acceptable?”

Bruce was quiet a moment, before responding, “I'm saying, my playing judge, jury, and executioner is unacceptable. I turn them over to the police; it's their job to handle it from there, and the justice system's from them.”

“And are you not a moral man, Batman?” Talia said 'Batman' like it was joke, like she knew he was really Bruce Wayne—and she did, he was sure. She was well trained in subterfuge and espionage, there was little doubt she'd discovered his identity.

“Regardless of whether or not I'm moral, that much power in the hands of one person is dangerous,” Bruce responded.

“You must hate Superman, then,” Talia responded.

“Haven't met him, don't like the idea,” Bruce said a little flatly.

He wasn't sure how it devolved from that. Or how debating morality led to feelings, attraction. 

But he and Talia ended up having sex. That's how he would describe it—not fucking, not making love. He wasn't a person to do such things often or with many people, and Talia was the exception.

He realized he was more than that to her the second time.

“I love you,” she'd breathed into his ear, and Bruce had been here before, had never been able to reciprocate in a way that his partner deserved.

He'd uncomfortably remained in bed for a bit, arm wrapped around her waist, and debated what to do. He didn't want to hurt her, even if she was an assassin and supposedly very tough—he knew about her soft core. Her devotion to love, which was what led her to be morally 'two-faced'--willing to commit evil for her father, and willing to do good for Bruce.

They'd talked the next day, when Bruce sought her out during his patrol.

He apologized. Said that he could never give her what she wanted, what she deserved in a relationship.

She'd watched him with disappointment in her dark eyes, and murmured that she understood—the mission was more important.

And he wanted to say that it had never been that. That it was something less callous, something he didn't totally get himself. That he cared about her enough not to trap her in a relationship where she would always be the one with stronger feelings.

But that was the easy answer, and he was younger then. He didn't think it would make much difference in the end, because it wasn't going to be easy either way.

He was wrong, of course.

She walked out of his life, to an extent—he didn't see her for a good two years after that, and it was never the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda headcanon Bruce as aromantic, at least to an extent. It's something he doesn't know about, but he does recognize that romance has never been something he's quite been able to do.
> 
> He certainly can love, though.
> 
> And yes, this is when Damian was conceived--and Bruce has no idea.
> 
> Lastly, I kinda got the concept a little from The Bridge of San Luis Rey--the quote goes: “Now he discovered that secret from which one never quite recovers, that even in the most perfect love one person loves less profoundly than the other. There may be two equally good, equally gifted, equally beautiful, but there may never be two that love one another equally well.” 
> 
> I wanted to incorporate that into the title, but couldn't come up with something clever that didn't sound like Talia was a stupid lovesick puppy within the time before I had to go to work. :P Enjoy!


	26. Conflictual Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janet Drake visits Tim in foster care for the first time. It's a miracle Bruce doesn't cause her bodily harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Janet's a little different in this one, perhaps--but her characterization is not that consistent, as I understand, so yeah.

It was amazing that Bruce hadn’t punched a hole in the wall—or in Janet Drake.

While the physical abuse charges against Jack were being investigated, he was not yet allowed to visit his son. Unfortunately, Janet had not been found to engage in the physical abuse—at least not to an extent that could be prosecuted. So she could visit.

It was only a week into Tim’s stay, but Bruce had picked up a lot about the boy. He was very intelligent, able to figure out much of how the house worked, from the fifteen year old stove with weird controls to the password to the network, and he was always tapping away on the laptop he’d brought with him—which he’d hidden the day that he knew his mother was coming.

Today, she sat across from him. Ms. Walker was sitting nearby, and she hadn’t sat in on any of these sorts of things with Bruce’s kids before, so Bruce wasn’t entirely certain what to expect. She seemed completely calm and like this was routine enough, though, so he relaxed. 

Until Janet started talking.

“How are you doing, Tim? Are you doing your homework? You shouldn’t fall behind just because of this,” Janet said, not even bothering to hug her son.

Tim sat in the chair, hands threaded together. “Um, I’ve been...they gave me time off.”

Janet gave a huff of annoyance. “Why would they do that? You know your father and I aren’t paying a cent of your college tuition—you need to earn it somehow! Don’t they know this could ruin your future?”

Tim shrugged noncommittally. 

Ms. Walker spoke up then. “Tim is being given time to recover from his injuries, Mrs. Drake.”

Janet gave another huff. “Well, once this has blown over, we’ll have to get you in tutoring. There’s no chance in hell I’m letting you fall behind because of this bullcrap.”

Bruce felt like punching her.

“The state doesn’t see it as ‘bullcrap,’ Mrs. Drake,” Ms. Walker said, a little warningly.

Janet gave a sharp, but not glaring, look at Ms. Walker. “You know there are children who are actually being abused out there, right? You’re wasting time and resources, but what else could we expect of a bloated government agency, right?”

Tim shifted uncomfortably, hands anxiously twitching but staying together.

“Your son has a broken skull, Mrs. Drake. Whatever went on in the case, something severe has happened,” Ms. Walker said, a bit sharply.

“It’s not really broken,” Janet insisted, “The state will just take any chance to take kids from people like us who dare to not buy into their crap. I know you know about Jack’s website—please, tell me this has _nothing_ to do with his criticisms of the government. I’ll believe you.”

Her tone was mocking, as if anyone outside her point of view was an idiot.

“It has nothing to do with your politics, Mrs. Drake, it has to do with the safety of your son. Please stop with this and focus on him,” Ms. Walker said, frowning at Janet.

“Our friends are hearing about this,” Janet continued, “They’ve started a fund to get him back. The country will know about your corrupt tactics soon enough—“

“Your husband broke your son’s fucking skull, it’d only be corrupt if they let him stay with you!” Bruce found himself bursting out angrily, hands clenched on the back of the couch, where he’d been standing as a recourse for Tim should he get too uncomfortable or feel unsafe.

Janet stared a moment, then sneered. “It’s bleeding heart liberals like you that are going to drive this country into the ground. Mrs. Walker, I want my son moved to a different foster home, this man will corrupt him.”

He could see Tim start, obviously wanting to protest—but Ms. Walker said, sharply, “I’m afraid you can’t do that, Mrs. Drake. Tim is temporarily a ward of the state, and I’ve determined this home is a safe place for him to be. Besides which, despite our agency being ‘bloated,’ according to you, there isn’t another foster home available for Tim at the moment—the best we’d have is an already crowded group home for children with severe traumas and other special needs. This is the best place for Tim for now.”

Janet snorted. It disturbed Bruce greatly how she was simply ignoring the whole _her husband broke her son’s skull_ thing, like it didn’t really happen if it didn’t fit with her version of things. Obviously, this was a political thing, and not because her son had come close to death or permanent injury at the hands of her husband.

“Please, the best place for him would be home. If you truly had his best interests at heart, he’d be with his parents. If that’s the only other place for him, though, it would be better than _here_ with this creep. Who’s to say he won’t molest Timothy anyway?”

Tim had stiffened, but Bruce was fighting to keep control. He could feel the rage build in his chest, but he choked it down.

“I promise you, he’s safer here than with you, Mrs. Drake, and I would _never_ lay a finger on him or harm him in any way.” Bruce had to fight to keep from snapping things like, ‘unlike your husband has clearly proven.’

Ms. Walker said, rather sharply, “Bruce. Please, you aren’t here to argue with Mrs. Drake. We are here so that Tim can see his mother; let’s focus on that. Both of you.”

She turned to Janet. “I assure you, Bruce is an excellent foster parent, and he’s taken good care of boys around Tim’s age before. In comparison to a group home like I’ve described, this is a much easier place for Tim to recover, especially given his head injury.”

Janet huffed, again, and checked her cell phone. She abruptly stood, saying, “I’ll see you next week, Tim.”

Tim surged to his feet, hand reaching towards his mother in shock, in pleading for her to stay. “Mom--!”

The look she gave him, like he had just done something stupid and embarrassing, made him retract the arm like he’d touched a hot stove. It made Bruce want to punch her again.

“Tim,” she said, like he was stupid, “I have a hair appointment. I agreed to it before this, and I desperately need my roots touched up.”

_Not as desperately as Tim needs his mother,_ Bruce thought to himself angrily. He managed to keep his mouth shut, though.

He could see the dejected, hurt posture even from behind Tim. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, Mom.”

“Mrs. Drake, there’s still at least forty minutes left in your visit. You won’t be back for another week. Perhaps you could cancel your appointment,” Ms. Walker said. Bruce could read the disapproval, even if it wasn’t completely overt.

“Well, you see, Chris is one of the best hairdressers in the area, and it takes at least a month to get in—I just, I don’t see how that’s possible,” Janet responded. “Besides, it’s only a week, and you assured me we could potentially move to twice a week.”

Maybe in her social circle, this was a reasonable answer to most things. Bruce still wanted to strangle her.

Ms. Walker gave a clipped, “I can’t keep you here.”

And Janet nodded, saying, “See you later, Ms. Walker. Tim, be sure to keep studying—I don’t want you falling behind. Goodbye.”

“Bye, Mom,” Tim said, a bit softly, a bit like a confused, hurt animal.

And Janet was gone.

Ms. Walker finished putting in notes to her paperwork, a distinct frown on her face. She didn’t say anything to Tim, except, “Okay, honey. Can you please go to your room? I need to talk to Bruce. Take some of the cookies with you.”

Tim obediently scooped up the cookies on the table, about three, and headed for upstairs.

Bruce was still fuming, but Ms. Walker had turned a sharp look on him. “Bruce. I know you mean well, but you are not here to argue with Tim’s mother. You are here as support at best, and if you continue to engage with the parent, you will not be present at these visits. Do you understand?”

Bruce let out a slow breath. “I understand. To an extent.”

“Good. Because if it seems like you’re influencing Tim, we could lose this case, for one thing. For another, you’re not the judge of the case, regardless of how apparent the abuse is. Your job is to care for Tim, not pass judgment. I know Mrs. Drake acted callously, but I had it in hand—that’s my job. Please do yours and leave me to do mine.”

Bruce nodded. He could see the sense in it, even if he wanted to fight Janet, to an extent. To show her how terrifying it was to be powerless in the face of someone who wanted to hurt you. But that wasn’t justice—that was just revenge.

Ms. Walker softened a bit. “I know it’s because you care. You’ve done a great job with the kids you’ve cared for—“ she added, as he opened his mouth, “You couldn’t have stopped Jason’s death, Bruce, but he knew he was loved. He knew he was cared for. He had a family. I know it’s still raw, and it still hurts—but you gave him your best. That’s all you can do.”

Bruce couldn’t respond, instead looking down at the ground. Finally, he said, “I’m going to take Tim some tea and talk to him. He could probably use it.”

“He could,” Ms. Walker agreed, sympathy evident in her eyes.

She left not long after.

The good news was, such callous disregard would only work against the Drakes and getting Tim back. Thank god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Janet is something of a narcissist, if you can't tell. Both Tim's parents are, to one extent or another.
> 
> In cases of parents like those, if it doesn't fit the narrative or reality they've planned, it simply isn't true, regardless of what reality is. Like, to my mom, who is a borderline narcissist, _I_ had mental illness because I was clearly depressed because I'm the _sensitive child_ , but my twin, who was the scapegoat, was clearly just making shit up for attention. Literally, when my twin attempted suicide and nearly died, she just rolled her eyes and huffed when she heard about it, as if to say, 'God, she's always doing things for attention.'
> 
> Which is her narrative for my twin. To be clear, my twin has literally never done anything majorly wrong--no drugs, no general law-breaking, no huge morality shit...it's just my mother's narrative. My twin is bad and does bad things--she's the _troublemaker_ , regardless of reality.
> 
> So, yeah. Janet is my mom, to an extent.
> 
> As for visits with children placed in foster care, this is definitely a thing. Much of the time, foster parents aren't there, but a social worker is. In some cases, the kids go back to their own homes or even stay the night. (Not in cases of sexual or extreme physical abuse, though) It's shown to help, because foster care's goal is usually to reunite families if they can. If a parent can get help and fix the problem, then they absolutely want the kid back there.


	27. If Everyone is a Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette's past is painful--and causes problems for their household. No one ever claimed being a foster parent was easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: discussion of childhood sexual abuse, non-explicit sexual assault/harassment, and really messed up mindset. Might be very uncomfortable.

Bette was causing problems fairly fast—but then, all the kids did, honestly. Even Dick had done things that could be considered problems.

But Bette's were ones he had never dealt with before.

Like when he walked in on Bette practically on top of Dick, hands messing with his zipper and Dick looking like he had no clue what to do. He was talking to her.

“Bette, get off, you don't want to do this--”

“Yeah, I do. Come on, it's no big deal--”

“Bette, I'm an adult--”

“Yeah, and a fucking sexy one too, right? Anyway, you're going to love--”

“Bette! I'm serious, stop, or I will make you stop!”

“Oh, come on, you want it, every guy does, you're all the same--”

“Bette!” Bruce barked, and she was up in a flash. He could see the relief in Dick's posture—he clearly had not wanted to hurt her.

She tossed her blonde hair back, curling a little around one of her fingers. “Yeah?”

Like it was normal. Like she'd been caught chewing gum in class and knew the teacher couldn't really do anything. She didn't seem to recognize that attempting to sexually assault Dick was a very bad thing—and probably didn't even think that was what was happening.

She was wearing small teal shorts, with a long-sleeved t-shirt that read 'Homeskooled'--Bruce would let that one go, it wasn't important. He moved to be between the two of them, wanting to be sure Dick was okay. 

“Bette, that's not appropriate,” he said, a bit quietly.

Bette snorted. “What isn't? I was just hugging him.”

“But you—you, that wasn't--” Dick seemed to almost stutter. Dick did not generally stutter, and this produced a sort of twisting feeling in Bruce's chest.

“What are you, a pervert?” Bette demanded, adding, “I mean, god, I know you sleep with everything that moves, but seriously, Dick.”

Dick made a kind of choked noise. Bruce put a comforting hand on his shoulder, saying, “Dick, can you please go up and see how Roy is doing? He hasn't come down yet today and I'm concerned.”

It was true. Roy was kind of prone to not leaving bed for a whole day or more.

Dick nodded, trusting that Bruce knew what he was doing. He headed up the stairs, and Bruce waited until they stopped creaking before turning back to Bette.

He sank down on the couch, gesturing to the other end. “Please sit down, Bette.”

Bette sat, a sort of languid sway to her body language. She tossed one leg over the other like she didn't care—but he could see the guarded tension in her eyes. “What? I mean, come on, are you one of those weirdos who's like, 'guys and girls can't touch, that's Satan!' or whatever? Cause that's bullshit.”

Bruce had to remind himself what he knew of Bette's history—Mr. Kane had been charged with extended sexual abuse, from a time when Bette was much too small to know any better or realize what was going on. He didn't like to think much on the details of what had gone on, what little he knew—but he knew he couldn't just ignore it because it made him uncomfortable. He owed it to Bette, as her current caregiver, to do his best to understand and help her.

“Bette, it isn't...Dick didn't _want_...whatever you were trying to do. He gets a say. Everyone gets a say, and if they didn't, it was wrong. Do you understand?”

He hoped he was being compassionate, dealing with this correctly.

Bette snorted. “Bruce, everyone's fucking. Literally everyone. Nuns, grandparents, high school students, _everyone_. They just pretend they're not. Even ugly people who insist that even looking at your own dick or whatever is wrong, they're fucking someone or something. They're just fucking liars.” She gave a little amused snort at the unintentional wordplay.

Bruce was not amused, and in fact, it was painful to hear that this was what she assumed. Or had been told. “That's not how it is, Bette. It may be how it seemed to be, but not everyone is having sex. And most of the people who are aren't forcing anyone.”

“It's only forcing if they're screaming,” Bette insisted, playing with a lock of hair again. “If they're _really_ fighting back. That's when it's rape or whatever.”

Bruce knew he had to tread carefully—but he also had to protect the other members of the house. “Bette, that's not true. If someone didn't feel safe to say no, that would be 'forcing' as well. If someone felt like they had to do it, then it would be the same. If someone was a child--”

“Children can have sex. All the sex they want,” Bette countered.

“But they don't want it. Children barely know what sex is, in a...more typically ordered upbringing.” Bruce was trying very hard not to push anything that would hurt Bette on her. He knew she didn't necessarily choose these views—they were survival mechanisms.

“Everyone wants sex,” Bette insisted again, a pointed foot pushed up towards the ceiling as if she was being casual.

“I don't. Tim's a virgin. Dick only has sex when he truly trusts someone--”

“Pfft, yeah, sure. Tim's not a virgin.”

“And how can you be so sure?” Bruce almost dreaded the answer.

She looked at him. “Why else would he be here?”

There was something in the statement, the way she was looking at him, that felt just sick in his stomach. He didn't want to assume a meaning, though, and so said, “What does that mean, Bette?”

Bette gave him an incredulous look. “Well, Dick's obviously the first, but he's too old now, so, you know, Tim's a good looking kid, and you're--”

Bruce hadn't meant to stand so abruptly, anger, horror, seeming to thread through him almost painfully. “Do not ever say that!”

Bette startled off the couch, looking up at him in shock. Then her eyes beaded up with tears. “Fuck you. Fuck you all and your stupid shit! You're a bunch of fucking liars, fuck you!”

And she got to her feet, running upstairs. 

Bruce groaned, putting a hand to his forehead. He hadn't handled that as well as he'd hoped. Still, he trooped upstairs, to make sure nothing was going on with any of the boys and Bette.

Instead, he caught sight of her with her face buried in Cass's shoulder, Cass gently holding her around her upper back. Cass's eyes flashed up to him, a look that said, 'I got it.'

Bruce silently moved on. He would talk more to Bette later, lay down clear boundaries—but she was clearly too upset now. It would be like trying to fix an overheated car—you had to wait for it to cool down first.

He glanced into the boys' room. He could see Dick sitting next to a sleeping Roy, sort of toying with his red hair—affection, a painful, 'I wish you could just magically get better' kind of thing. He glanced up at Bruce, that look in his eyes that spoke of his great empathy.

Bruce settled at the end of the bed, not far from Dick. “I'm sorry that happened. I haven't gotten it cleared up with Bette—yet. She...doesn't understand. And that doesn't make it okay—how are you feeling?”

“I'm...I'm fine,” Dick said. “It's just, it was unexpected. I didn't really know what to do.”

Bruce nodded, but added, “Dick, if it upset you, that's normal. That's all right. What she did was a violation, even if she clearly didn't think it was. You have boundaries, and you deserve to have them respected, as everyone does.”

Dick nodded, then said, a bit quietly, “She doesn't have boundaries, does she? They were taken from her.”

Bruce sighed quietly. “Yes. But if you need to talk about how you feel, I'm here. Understand?”

Dick looked down at Roy. “Yeah. I get it. I'm fine, though.”

Bruce wasn't entirely sure he was. Some might consider it a small deal, but he knew better. Still, it was Dick's choice to talk about it—more boundaries, and he had to respect them. “All right. Make sure he eats, okay?”

Dick nodded.

Bruce sighed as he left the room—his heart honestly hurt for his cousin, and anger towards the parent who had taken her ability to be a child, to not assume every single person was a liar, to know how to function in reality instead of in a lie that her father had constructed, was there too.

He reminded himself that justice wasn't easy. And justice wasn't just cracking skulls.

It was healing too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a hard one. I'm wondering if I should bump up the rating.
> 
> Anyway--sexual abuse victims, especially children, can react in more than one way to sexual abuse. Some sort of shut down, express fear of their abuser and home and uncertain situations. Become very depressed and so on.
> 
> Others become far more sexual, without understanding what's okay. This is especially common with those who are abused young, and are coerced rather than brutally forced.
> 
> Bette's understanding comes from seeing her father charmingly lie his way through things, from the fact hers goes on behind closed doors and no one is supposed to talk about it. From reinforcement of that viewpoint. If it didn't happen to everyone, she would have to accept that what happened to her was horrible and traumatic and she was tricked and robbed. She believes, at this point, that she had as much say as her father, even though she didn't. It's a way of surviving, to believe that you have a choice when you don't/didn't, and you just chose the thing that was forced on you or that you were coerced into.
> 
> But yeah. I hope it was all right. I've kinda completely reinvented Bette, cause she was seriously 2-D and shit in the comics. Sorry. DX


	28. Chill Pill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason has strong feelings about his medicine--and idiot fellow homeschoolers.

Medicine was a very important part of keeping Jason healthy—and reducing the risk of spreading HIV. It staved off AIDS, and the idea was that, eventually, Jason could potentially be able to have an intimate relationship with someone without the risk of transmitting. At least, with safeguards taken, to be sure.

This was something that Bruce had shared with Jason in fairly oblique terms—until Jason had responded, “You mean I'll be able to fuck someone?”

Still. Jason was young, not even a teenager yet, and getting him to take more than one pill every day was a challenge in and of itself.

This morning, Jason was sitting in front of the blue little pill sorter that held his medicine for every day of the week. His cereal was done, and the glass of water sat on the table next to it.

Bruce had recently been able to begin homeschooling him after his grades had been short of passing for almost two quarters, and plus the number of fights he tended to get in—it had been enough to persuade his social worker, Ms. Walker, and her higher ups. Plus, Dick was testing very well, as well as doing a number of extracurriculars through homeschool groups in the area.

Because Dick was nothing if not social, and Bruce had to make sure he got to interact with many and varied people, or he would feel very isolated and stir-crazy. Traveling the world for as long as you can remember tended to do that to a person.

Back to Jason. He sat and stared at the pills and water, not making a move to take them.

Bruce sighed, left the computer where he'd been looking for cheap textbooks (not bad ones, just used, through the homeschool email network), and sat next to Jason. “What's wrong?”

Jason frowned, arms crossed and dropping his head on them. “They taste bad.”

“They _are_ pills, Jason, not chewables. You're not really supposed to taste them—just swallow them as fast as possible,” Bruce explained, and he could see the frown tighten on Jason's face.

He doubted this was about the taste at all.

Jason spat, bitterly, “I don't wannem. Just throw them out or sell them or whatever.”

“Jason, for one, I can't sell your medicine. For another, throwing them out would be dishonest; they give me money for your medicine, and if I was throwing it away, that would be a waste. And you know how stretched the money is in the foster care program.” He tilted his head, an empathetic look on his face. “But, we need to talk about this. You know needing medicine doesn't mean anything about you, right? It doesn't make you weak or broken or weird.”

“Don't fucking lie,” Jason growled, “Of course I'm weird! The kids at school been beating on me and shit cause they figured it out cause of a stupid fucking teacher who freaked out when I was bleeding, kay? Practically shrieked, 'Don't touch the blood!' Kids in this place, they _know_. Fuck em.”

“You're not in that school anymore. No one else knows,” Bruce said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Jason allowed it. 

“Yeah, well, fuck them. Fuck everybody. Fuck all those homeschool freaks too—you know this one asshole said that he wants a virgin or whatever? Fuck him. They're not ruined. They're not.”

Bruce frowned. He was pretty, mostly, certain that Jason had told him the truth about there not having been sexual abuse in his past. But then, knowing about his mother, who had apparently lost hope after being impregnated by Jason's father and spiraling down into drug addiction not long after his birth (not during, thank god), he could see where Jason was coming from.

“I know that, Jason. I know. Some people just...don't understand.” Bruce felt a bit sad that Jason was being exposed to this, but Jason had already been exposed to every kind of horror, in many ways—hearing the horrid side of homeschool culture was not the worst that had been thrown at him.

Jason smirked just a bit. “Yeah, he knows now. I threw his bus pass in the bushes.”

“Jason!” Bruce was horrified. “Did you leave him stranded at the--”

“The library...” Jason's proud words had quickly dwindled to confused shame. He obviously didn't understand why Bruce was upset.

“Did he make it back all right?”

“Yeah. It was that Detweiler kid, y'know, the one from Russia or whatever—Peter? His freako fucking siblings stayed with him, kay? So don't flip the fuck out at me, damnit, he's the one who was wrong!” Jason turned sharply away from Bruce, hunched over, crossed-armed posture practically ripping out from under Bruce's hand.

Bruce sighed. Jason's sense of justice was...just a little different than most of the kids', or even his. But he had once been where Jason was—the 'an ass needs kicked so I'm gonna do it' kind of phase. It was anger at having been hurt, or seen a lot of hurt, expressing itself in a way that made the kid feel more powerful or good or right.

Less like a victim. Less like someone could do that again. 

“Jason. Do you understand that, while what he said was wrong, what you did was also wrong?”

“No. He fucking deserved it.” Jason glared at the table, his face just barely visible to Bruce. “I shoulda kicked his ass too.”

Bruce sighed. Jason didn't live in a world where there were nuances—not that there weren't nuances on the street, just that there weren't nuances to Jason. Jason had a rather black and white vision of the world, much of the time—the bad people got punished, the good people were hurt. It left a thin line for him to talk, and he rarely stayed inside it.

“Jason...you can't change people's minds by beating them or otherwise abusing them. Making him suffer isn't going to change his mindset--”

“I don't care, I want him to suffer,” Jason snapped, “And I'm not taking the damn pills, cause I'm not a fucking invalid!”

Bruce said, gravely, “Would you rather develop AIDS, Jason? I'm not saying this to scare you, but that's one of the main purposes of these medications. I don't want you to be that sick.”

“I'm gonna die in a couple years anyway!” Jason practically screamed at him. “Why do I gotta go through this and all this shit?”

Bruce blinked. “Jason, you're not going to die in a couple years. You're not even going to die in a few years. With these meds, you could live decades.”

The fight, anger, in Jason's face was replaced with pure, unadulterated shock. It hurt Bruce to realize Jason had thought, all this time, that he was going to die in a short amount of time. “I-I am? I will?”

He should have explained better—or made sure Jason was listening. Bruce sighed, hugging him. “Yes. That's what the meds are for.”

Jason hugged back, rather abruptly, as if he wasn't sure if he didn't Bruce would disappear. “'m sorry,” he mumbled.

“It's okay. You've got a whole life ahead of you, Jason—don't waste your time on people like Peter Detweiler.” He hugged him a bit tighter, and let him go when Jason seemed to want to be let go.

Jason swallowed the pills in one gulp. He looked up at Bruce, as if he couldn't admit that he was going along with it. He nodded at Bruce.

Bruce smiled back, and went over to the sink to work on the morning dishes (Dick had apparently had both oatmeal and cereal that morning). He was working when he swore he heard a whispered,

“Decades.”

And he smiled to himself. Because Jason had hope, and that was worth everything they'd been through in the past months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that whole 'pure virgin unicorn wife' thing is unfortunately *really* a thing in much of the homeschool community. :P And in the comics, Jason has generally felt strongly about such things. Peter Detweiler is lucky that he didn't punch him in the face, honestly.
> 
> :)


	29. Parental Rights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's parents try to take him back.

Janet and Jack Drake just had no concept of reality.

Bruce had often felt it was in different ways, but it really hit home when he woke up to a startled cry from Tim—from downstairs.

He was barely conscious of having run down the stairs until he actually was there—and there were the Drakes, flanked by two friends.

Jack's hand was on Tim's shoulder, and it looked like Tim was regaining his balance—his face was a cross between shame and confusion when he looked at Bruce, like he didn't know if he should apologize to his parents or Bruce.

He heard Dick arrive next to him, pajamas proudly emblazoned with snowmen.

“What are you doing?” Bruce demanded, fighting to keep the growl out of his voice.

Janet looked like she wasn't really paying attention, somehow, smoothing down Tim's hair, but Jack had a triumphant gleam in his face, and nodded to a fat-faced friend on his left. The friend stepped forward, flourishing a piece of paper.

“Timothy was taken unlawfully—I'm a lawyer, we're here to take him home—unless you'd rather we sue you for damages, such as emotional pain and slander.”

Tim looked—well, afraid. His eyes kept darting back to Bruce, then to his parents, a clear conflict going on there.

He'd been with them for six months, and Bruce hadn't seen him quite so cowed since earlier on. He looked uncertain, like all the 'rules' had been flipped on him—or reinstated.

“That's not how the law works, and I doubt you're really a lawyer,” Dick growled, already stepping forward and clearly ready to fight to keep Tim here.

Bruce stuck out an arm, keeping him back. 

The fat-faced man snorted. “I graduated from Gotham Law in '91, thank you. Of course I know what I'm talking about.”

“What's your specialty? Because if it's family law, you're a quack at best,” Bruce said as evenly as possible, even though he wanted to punch pretty much any of them in their faces.

“Insurance law isn't _that_ different,” Jack said, “We looked it up. Our parental rights demand that he be returned immediately. The constitution--”

“The constitution has nothing to do with parental rights, and even if it did, you are required to go through the law. Let Timothy stay here for now, until you challenge it in a court of law,” Bruce said, trying hard not to growl, not to attack. 

Tim turned towards him, as if he were the authority here—which made Jack's hand tighten suddenly, painfully enough that Tim made a pained noise, slightly stifled. 

Dick had come forward before Bruce could stop him, breaking Jack's hold and pulling Tim behind him at the same time. The last friend, a man with a large nose and dark, balding hair, raised a gun, snapping, “We have the right! Let him go, right now!”

Naturally, Bruce, Dick, they'd frozen. Neither of them were nearly near enough to disarm him, and even then, disarming a gunman was really dangerous—especially in a group of people.

He could see Tim's hand clenched in the back of Dick's pajama shirt. He could see the way Dick had maneuvered to keep Tim out of any shot's path.

And Bruce felt like he might explode if someone took another of his children. He growled, voice utterly dangerous, “If you don't put that gun down, you will die. No one threatens my kids.”

“He's _our_ child,” Janet said, somehow not catching the deadly protective tone, “And we're taking him home, as his rightful parents. No one's going to find fault with _that_.”

The friend kept his gun pointed at Bruce now, saying, with a sneering tone, “You bleeding heart fag. You probably think it's a fucking great thing to keep Timmy from his parents, don't you? Your damn indoctrination shit! If a kid doesn't believe your bullshit, you gotta take him from his parents, don't you?”

“That is not and was never what this was about! His father, your _friend_ , beat his son to the point he cracked his skull! He was taken for his safety, your damned politics never entered the equation! You put that gun down, or you're all going to jail. I'm giving you a chance to walk out,” Bruce growled. 

He would not let it go, of course. He would call the police whatever happened, because Tim clearly would not be safe if he did not.

“Tim,” Jack said, clearly ignoring Bruce, “Come over here. Now.”

Tim looked overwhelmed, hand still clenched in the back of Dick's pajama shirt, scared and he didn't want to go, but he knew that voice and that voice was to be obeyed. “D-Dad--”

“Timothy Jackson Drake, you come here right now or there will be consequences!” Jack snapped.

Jerkily, Tim started to move towards him, biting his lips hard between his teeth, visible even in this light—but Dick wrapped his arms around him, snapping, “You'll have to go through me, asshole.”

Tim reacted in horror. “No, Dick, it's not worth it! Stop! It's just—just _me_ , it's okay, I-I'll be fine, please--!”

The friend turned his gun on Dick, still too far away to be disarmed in an effective way. Bruce wished he had a projectile of some kind on him, but he didn't. He would take one to bed from now on.

“Come on, fag. Stop trying to keep him here against his parents' wills,” the friend said, as if Dick was doing this just to spite Jack and Janet Drake, as if it fit his agenda to protect his younger foster brother with his life and he wasn't doing it because he loved him.

Bruce was figuring out the situation, how to get both his sons out alive—he could see Tim trembling, trying to pick Dick's arms off of him while Dick utterly refused to let him.

“Fuck you, what if they kill him this time? You okay with that on your head?” Dick growled, and Bruce could practically see angry tears in his eldest son's eyes. He'd lost too many people already—it was clear Dick was not about to lose Tim too.

The friend growled, “Please, that's a bunch of bullshit and we all know it. The Drakes would never hurt Tim—and besides, corporal punishment isn't against the law. Timmy probably just got his ass whooped for good reason and the state seized the opportunity. Right, boy?”

Tim was clearly upset by this assertion, shutting his eyes tightly, fighting against all the gaslighting of life with his parents-- “N-no...”

The lawyer sighed, saying, “They clearly got to him. Convinced him he's been abused. That's what they do in places like this.”

Bruce could hear the tears—and rage—in Tim's voice as he responded, in a voice that was small and trembling at first, but that rose in volume, “No. No, I _did not_ deserve it, I did not—Y-you know how they say kids are priceless? You know that? I'm not. I'm not, I have a price sticker on my forehead—it's $295. Isn't it, Dad? That's what fixing that vacuum cleaner costs, right? That's what me not being in h-hospital is worth, right? My intact skull is only worth $295 dollars at best--”

“Timothy--” Jack started sternly, but Tim continued.

“No! You _hurt me_ \--and then made me believe it was my fucking fault!”

“Language--” Janet started disapprovingly, but Jack was quick to jump in, voice dropping to a softer, more caring tone.

“Timothy, it was never like that. Of course you're priceless, look—we came back for you. It was an accident—I never meant to hurt you, I was just upset.” He said 'upset' like it explained and excused everything. “Now, come on. I'm sorry. Let's go home.”

Tim looked confused, stumbling in his anger. Trying to figure out where to go with this. “Y-you're—no, I don't—It still hurt me, I'm still--”

“Timothy, I said I was sorry.” Jack's tone said it was over—he said he was sorry, that settled it. “Don't drag it on, that's immature. What else is there to say?”

Tim seemed to be struggling, like there was a dam of words, of things he needed to say, trying to burst. He looked to Bruce, face creased, like _is this how things are?_

Bruce, however, took advantage of the moment, the distraction in the gunman—and hit him with a lamp, hard, shattering the old eighties-pattern body of it and sending the lamp shade careening away bent and torn. He turned on the Drakes and their lawyer friend. “Get. Out. You are done here, and you will be done for good once the police hear about this.”

They flinched. He must have looked terrifying—it made sense. He wanted to kill them.

“We'll—we'll contact our league, they'll help us fight--” Jack was saying, as he stumbled out. “He's ours, the police will--”

“The police will be taking your friend to jail, and you too, if you don't get the fuck out of here,” Bruce snarled, and they were gone, in the nice mid-range car and squealing out into the street.

Bruce tied the gunman's hands, and moved the gun to a safe place, calling the police.

He could see the tension just drain out of Tim's body, and he clung to Dick, quietly crying. Dick held him tightly, rubbing his shoulders, and for the first time, suddenly, Tim was audible. He was crying hard, like he was allowed now, like something had changed.

Hiccuping, loud, and—it would have made Bruce relieved to hear if it didn't mean Tim was in distress. Bruce came over, joining the hug, not trapping Tim, but letting him know that he cared, that Tim was safe here. “You're worth far more than $295, Tim. I hope you know that.”

He thought he heard a sound of assent.

He wasn't certain. But he knew this—after that episode, no judge was going to award the Drakes their son back.

Finally, their paranoid politics had done them in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole 'I said sorry so it's over' is definitely an abuse tactic. Cause it's more about shutting up the person or assuaging the abuser's feelings than it was ever about the victim. (My dad does this all the fucking time. Like I'm just supposed to stop having PTSD cause he said sorry, and so on.)
> 
> Tim's story also comes from mine in respect to the reason he was beaten so badly. Broke a vacuum cleaner. I remember thinking, 'That's what I'm worth. A vacuum cleaner. Two hundred dollars. Me being okay is worth two hundred dollars.'
> 
> So, yeah. It's why I'm so fucking careful if my bro breaks something or something, no matter how much I care about the thing or how expensive it is. He is worth more than any item, thing I've written, or really anything. Fuck the mindset that allows an adult to attack a kid for breaking something and it's okay. I still have panic attacks when I break _anything_ that isn't already mine.
> 
> But yeah. Hope you liked it. Also, don't think I'm just picking on the crazy nutjob Conservatives--Bette's parents are very much Liberals. And Bruce is neither and doesn't care for politics.


	30. Bup, or, Friendship Among Actors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason is having a little trouble adjusting to homeschooling, and frankly, the homeschool community can be a mixed bag. But he finds a friend, and things start to look up...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bup is based on a kid I actually met, just as a heads up. :)

The homeschool community was a varied one. Many parents (and guardians and so on) homeschooled for very different reasons. It took effort to find people who Bruce didn't want to throttle at times.

The Home's Cool Troupe? This, he could deal with—and it gave Dick an opportunity to let off steam, have fun, and make friends. He didn't also add that it gave both his boys an opportunity to develop their acting skills, but that could come in handy in the future too. Or currently, for Dick.

Jason was intimidated at first by the play-acting group, but when Bruce had asked him if he was all right with it, he had insisted he was great and he would play something really big and kick everyone's asses at acting.

The Home's Cool Troupe was more cheesily named than the group they came from—UHEG, United Home Educators of Gotham. Honestly, the acronym was ugly, and he was pretty sure the founders had not really intended them to use it, instead the full name—but it was a decent group.

And here they were now, in a church basement with a stage, while Dick animatedly chattered on to his friends. The boy was wearing that ugly green sweater that he seemed very attached to of late, it bearing two reindeer—one with a red nose. Bruce was pretty sure it was some sort of in-joke between him and Barbara—he was seeing her later today.

Jason, on the other hand, was sitting by himself, thumbs shoved into the loopholes of his jeans. He kept wavering between a lonely look and an 'I'm fine I don't need anybody' kind of look.

Bruce was watching from his place with the parents, brow probably a bit crinkled in concern, but he had to give Jason a chance to find his own way. He had paused in his reading—the book that Dick was going to read next week, a collection of Faustian tales.

He kept his finger in his place, and watched with concern still—but then, one of the little boys approached Jason.

This boy was about five, and had a ponytail that stretched down his back. He was called Bup affectionately by his siblings, and Bruce wasn't yet aware of his real name.

Bruce could hear them, and so he watched as Bup suddenly settled next to Jason.

“Hi. I'm Baptiste! You can call me Bup, kay?”

Jason looked a little startled, but he nodded. “I'm Jason.”

Baptiste gave a sort of smile at him—Bruce wouldn't describe it as a grin, nor a smirk, or anything like that. It was a surprisingly compassionate look for such a small child. “Do you like the color red? Cause it's really nice, and you're wearing a red shirt, so it's okay if you do.”

Jason nodded, seeming a little confused.

Baptiste continued. “Yeah, I like red too. Green's my favorite, though. But it's okay, cause we can like different colors and we don't hafta fight.” He smiled over at Jason, and scooted closer. And Jason didn't move away.

“I guess that's good,” Jason said. It almost made Bruce make a sad smile, because Jason clearly had no idea what to do with Baptiste.

Baptiste was quiet a moment, and he said, “It's okay if your heart hurts. Sometimes it does, and it makes you not wanna talk to the other kids. It's okay, though.”

Jason didn't deny it like Bruce expected—he just ducked his head down, saying, “Yeah. I guess so.”

Baptiste's face said he clearly wanted to make Jason feel better—and he said, “Can I hug you? Momma says you have to consent, that's important, but it can help your heart feel better.”

He could see Jason bite his lip, like he wasn't used to this—but Baptiste was an easygoing, gentle child, and he waited.

Finally, Jason just nodded, and Baptiste wrapped his arms around him. “It's okay,” he said, tiny hand patting roughly around Jason's ear. “It's okay. It hurts now, but you're gonna feel better.”

Jason actually held back, actually wrapped his arms around the smaller child. Bruce felt a sort of happiness, relief—Jason could relate to other people, outside his family. Jason could connect.

And this group was definitely not a bust.

Baptiste let go when he apparently decided that Jason was okay. He smiled at him brightly. “Did you know three times four is twelve?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jason admitted, sort of looking a bit shy.

Baptiste grinned. “And three times five is nine!”

Well. He was certainly doing okay on multiplication tables for a five year old, Bruce thought to himself, smiling.

Jason smiled a little. “You're smart for a little kid.”

“Yeah, it's just cause of my darn dad!” Baptiste said, with exaggerated exasperation. He quickly launched into a tale of his dad having him count out the change at the counter when they were shopping, and was pretty soon sharing many tales of math and other things his 'darn dad' had taught him.

Bruce smiled to himself, as he watched Jason seem to slowly open up.

By the next class/meeting of the troupe, Jason was actually in the circle with the other kids, as they discussed the play they wanted to do this year.

They settled on a kid-friendly version of Beowulf (somehow, it was kid-friendly. Bruce wasn't certain how—he'd have to get his hands on his kids' scripts when they came in to see how a playwright pulled it off), and Jason got a part playing a Dane.

Dick landed the role of Beowulf himself, and made promises to die as dramatically as possible.

Bruce listened to them chatter about it the whole way back home.

Thank god for Bup—and kids like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Baptiste/Bup is kinda several kids I've known, but yeah. The awesome side of homeschooling! Yay! Cause, yeah, within certain 'strains' of homeschooling, you get the really awesome stuff, like the kid being encouraged to be themselves, learning before being 'forced' by school and as a fun thing, being taught empathy, being taught stuff like consent, and so on. :) Knew several kids/families that followed this sort of philosophy. Laid back, but active, kinda folks. The 'hey for school today we're going to Amish country/the duck pond/an antiques store!' or 'we're going to learn about magnets today! Here's a fuck ton of em, mess around, and we'll talk about the scientific properties!' or 'Hey, you wanna build a computer? Go for it, let's get what you need!'
> 
> :)
> 
> Thought we could use a fluff kinda chapter. And little kids who can tell when someone's hurting like that...they are gold and must be protected, frankly.


	31. Slip and Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy is in deep depression--and hope always seems to slip away. 
> 
> Bruce is trying to help him anyway.

Roy was not Bruce's in any sense of the word—except perhaps one. He was like an unofficially adopted member of the family, and he had a place here. Always.

Bruce was working on dinner when Roy came over. He was showered, which was good, he seemed to be having a good day, and his red hair was curled and a darker color thanks to the water. He was wearing one of Dick's t-shirts, which fit okay, even if he'd lost some muscle mass in the past month or so. It had the Pink Power Ranger on it, and Bruce would have smiled to himself if he hadn't seen Roy's face.

Roy was tentative, hands shoved in his jean pockets, as he watched Bruce open the box of spaghetti. “Can...I want to help.”

Bruce could see the dark circles under Roy's eyes, the way he slept but didn't rest, and he smiled a bit at him. “Of course, Roy. Do you want to heat up the sauce?”

Roy nodded, scratching at the back of his neck, and he noisily got out a saucepan. Bruce stealthily hid the one he already had out, sneaking it into the dirty dishes. As Roy set the new one on the stovetop, Bruce handed him the jar of sauce--

And jumped back as it shattered on the ground, splattering sauce everywhere worse than a crime scene.

Roy blinked slowly, and horror quickly crossed his face. He almost sank down to his knees, but Bruce caught him quickly, so he didn't get glass in his legs. “Okay, stay still. You're not wearing shoes, and there's glass everywhere.”

Roy didn't agree, trying to move. “No, no, I can't—I have to--!”

“It's okay, Roy, just stay right there—I'm going to clean this up,” Bruce said, keeping a firm grip on his shoulders. Bruce was wearing shoes today—thick combat boots. They were more than capable of handling glass.

“But now we don't have sauce,” Roy said, and it sounded almost ridiculous—until Bruce caught the clear tears running down Roy's face. It was similar to before—his face was hardly contorted in emotional pain, but it was there.

“I can run out and get more sauce, Roy.”

Roy just seemed to crumple at that, murmuring, in a voice so abjectly sad that it made Bruce feel pain in his chest, “I mess up everything. I can't do anything right.”

Bruce just wanted to hold Roy, remind him that he'd done a lot in spite of a horrible mentor and father, that he was strong and definitely _did not mess up everything_ \--but Roy didn't know him that well. He kept his hands on his shoulders, saying, gently, “No, you don't, Roy. It's all right, I can fix it—supper's not ruined. Nothing's ruined.”

Roy sniffled loudly, little choking noises making it out as he obviously tried not to feel the emotional tidal wave. “I—I always mess it up, you don't get it, I'm an addict and a horrible crimefighter and I don't have friends and-and I have nothing in my life--”

“You have friends, Roy. You've also been very successful as a crimefighter, in spite of Oliver. You being addicted to heroin doesn't make any of that less, and you're going to get through this. I promise, one day, you'll look back and be amazed at where you are compared to now,” Bruce said, and now, he did wrap his arms around Roy. Fuck not being his father—he would fill that role, given its conspicuous emptiness.

Roy sobbed now, face buried in Bruce's shoulder. Bruce knew, if he hadn't been recovering and depressed and just emotionally destroyed, he would not be acting like this at all. But so long as he was, Bruce would respond in a way that showed him it was okay.

“I'm sorry,” Roy said, not for the first time since he'd come there. He drew away quickly, like he wasn't supposed to hold hugs past a concrete time.

Bruce didn't force him back. “It's all right—you don't have to be sorry. It was an accident—and I am happy to have you here. I want you to be safe here. Do you understand?”

Roy nodded, though it was clear in his face he didn't.

Bruce sighed, but set to cleaning things up. He got up the glass and sauce, and then, after sending Roy to take a shower, and making certain Cass was within listening distance (she had a sixth sense for self harm, even if it wasn't common among the kids here), he headed out for more sauce.

By the time he returned home, Roy had returned to bed—and didn't emerge for another day.

Next time, Bruce would be more careful, he told himself, with a rather morose sort of feeling in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just thinking on my own depression, and deep lack of self-worth (as a teenager). I feel like Roy would be hit hard by this during his recovery, given the effects of heroin withdrawal--and Oliver's actions. Being displaced is also very rough on people, and especially teens or children.


	32. Like a Ninja Turtle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The neighbors on the right--the Huangs.

Mr. and Mrs. Huang lived on the right side of the dojo/Wayne home, if you looked at it from the front. Chen and Min Ling were elderly, spoke English fairly well, and did all right in terms of money. Chen collected social security for a long time working for a telephone company, and Min Ling currently sold crafts not unlike the old ones she knew from her hometown in Hong Kong through the internet.

Before that, she'd relied on flea markets and the like—the internet really helped her reach a lot of people with beautiful paper lanterns, fans, and so on.

Her Chinese finger traps were sort of a joke—they were designed with silly cartoons on them that reflected Hong Konger (or wider Chinese) culture, or at least what it had been the last she had been there.

Bruce hadn't talked to them a lot to begin with—he'd settled into the house and started his dojo. He had once, jokingly, asked Chen if he knew kung fu or another martial art when the elderly man watched Bruce practicing outside.

Chen had smiled, laughed, and said no.

That was actually the start of it. Chen had started stopping by more often, wispy grayish-white hair fluffed around his head as he seemed to come straight from bed—though dressed neatly in a sweater and clean jeans.

He would watch the students quietly. He always came with cookies (almond cookies, Bruce thought) and often some tea. The tea was no better than what Bruce had, of course, and at first Bruce hadn't added anything to it, but then, Chen had asked for sugar for his tea with a smile that said he knew Bruce was trying to be culturally appropriate.

They soon started having cookies and tea every week, Chen bringing cookies and tea and Bruce providing the honey and cream. Chen seemed to like cream, though he did say, “Don't tell my wife.”

Bruce had expected the knowing look and the comment about his wife being a warden or something, but instead, Chen's face grew a bit sad.

“She loves it, but she can't have it. She developed diabetes a bit ago, and with her liver on top of that...she can't have cream. Too much sugar, too much fat. She manages on fake creamer powder—but I don't want her to feel sad she can't have it. Out of sight, out of mind.”

Bruce was almost floored. He never seemed to see couples who still cared about each other that much at that age—or almost at all. The last he could remember was his parents.

“I understand,” he'd said, and he sort of did.

Then Dick came along, and that was when he learned the reason for Chen's visits.

Chen had watched Dick work through a kata with Bruce, eyes wistful, and finally, he admitted to Bruce, “I keep thinking, if I come here, I can get the courage to try it. To learn martial arts.”

Bruce had asked why.

Chen had said, face clearly downcast, “My grandson, Ryan, is a big fan of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. He won't talk about much else, and he doesn't like being at our house or around us. I thought, if we had it in common, since Min Ling and I don't have a TV or even cable, we could be closer. It's not a good plan, though.”

Dick had looked up at Chen with big, compassionate eyes, and declared, “I can teach you all about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles! And if Ryan doesn't want to be your grandson, I can! I need grandparents, to be honest.”

Chen had smiled at Dick, and gently touched the top of the small child's head. He seemed almost overcome at that, and said, softly, “You can come over whenever you wish, then. Mrs. Huang will make something nice for you.”

It turned out that extra support was invaluable while Bruce was still figuring out parenting—and then homeschooling.

It takes a village and all that, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! I kinda had the idea for them for a while--which is why Bruce is mentioned as having some knowledge of Cantonese, which is the main Chinese language spoken in Hong Kong. :) Plus, sad relationships with elderly people is a thing. I've met such grandparents before--and the cultural divide is also a thing, since the Huangs are immigrants but the grandson is second gen American.
> 
> Update number one from vacation without internet!


	33. Pretty as a Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette is slowly learning to fight efficiently.

Bette was interesting to teach karate. She didn't quite seem to get the notion of moving without paying attention to the aesthetics, especially since she seemed to think she had to compensate for the loose, shape-obscuring gi she was wearing.

And...to an extent, yes, aesthetics mattered in karate. If you were presenting a kata to be judged, it did matter how it looked.

But that was hardly the reason Bruce was training Bette. He wanted her to know she had other tools, that she was strong and capable and so much more than just attractive parts. She wasn't her bust or her butt or her face. She was _herself_ , and that made her infinitely valuable.

It was certainly not a thing Bette understood, as she had certainly been late to school many a time after spending too long in the bathroom prepping. Bruce thought she got up earlier than any of them to be ready in time. 

He hadn't been one hundred percent certain about homeschooling her when it had only been a couple weeks in, but by now, she'd been here a while, a couple months, and he felt like her grades could be far better than they were. She hit exactly the grade needed to pass and no more, which suggested to Bruce a kind of precision—an understanding of how a teacher would grade, what each bit of everything, including essays, was worth, of perception of herself should she come across as a 'nerd' or something. A lot was going on here.

It felt like her peers, the hundreds who went to North Gotham High, were a far more important part of her self-value—and that was unhealthy.

Tim had a tendency to define himself by grades before switching out of a brick and mortar school. Bette had the opposite.

It made sense for their backgrounds and the gender stereotypes pushed on them, but it still made Bruce sigh to himself when he'd contemplated what to do.

But Bette, while learning martial arts, would add a flourish, a hip jut, so on and so forth.

And Bruce was pretty lenient when it came to newbies doing things like putting their hands on their hips or so on in the beginning, but this was clearly something he needed to nip in the bud if she was going to learn it correctly. Also, he suspected it may be a talk they needed to have.

“Bette,” he said, as she kiaied loudly—and with a 'cute' squeak to it.

She turned to him, flipping her curled but ponied hair. “Yeah? I mean, um...hai?”

Bruce said, in a soft-ish tone, “I admire your ability to throw yourself into this; you're clearly very strong, flexible, and agile, and you have the ability to be aggressive enough to do this, honestly. Some kids I have to teach to land a punch without flinching and apologizing.”

She gave a sort of self-satisfied tilt of her head.

“But,” Bruce continued, “You need to focus more on efficiency than appearance. If you flourish when you do an outward block like this, it's not nearly as effective. It takes longer and doesn't block as well—and you could break your fingers if you don't keep them in a proper fist.”

Bette rolled her eyes. “What, you think I'm going to be in a fight like that?”

But while her words were dismissive, he could see the way her feet were brought slightly closer together, the way her posture closed off from him a bit.

“I know you want to be. I've seen the way you stare at Dick in costume--”

“I'm not trying to fuck him this time!” Bette immediately defended, but Bruce was quick to clarify.

“I know you're not, Bette. I mean, I see the way you admire his strength and ability as a crimefighter—his confidence certainly attracts you. You stare at Cass in a similar way, honestly.” Bruce was quiet a moment, just as Bette was. “You want what we have.”

Bette frowned at that. She looked away, into a mirror, and then quickly looked another direction. “Yeah, you just think that, cause, like, you think being girly's a sin.”

Bruce could see where she would get the idea—Cass did not do things like makeup or impractical shoes or so on. She still wore her hair in the same practical ponytail every day. Her clothes were practical as well. And the boys hardly could be called stereotypically girly.

But it certainly wasn't the case. “There's nothing wrong with makeup or doing your hair or clothes that are attractive—though that's not what defines being a girl. You could honestly dye your hair purple and blue and get multiple piercings and I wouldn't think less of you. There is an issue, however, when it's very much your focus to be attractive all the time.”

Bette huffed. “Shows what you know. Cass already looks good—she has a smoking body and her face is fucking cute and she can just—she can get away with it. I need makeup—you think my brows even show up without it?”

“You don't need to 'get away' with not being superficially attractive at some point,” Bruce rejoined, but he did add, “I know girls are under a lot more pressure for their looks. But it doesn't define you, and frankly, you have the right to be ugly sometimes. You have the right to be sick and look it—you have the right to make faces that suit how you feel—you have the right to move in ways that aren't strictly beautiful or like a dance.”

Bette was still frowning, but she sank into back stance, knees bent. “Yeah, sure.”

It was a value thing, and Bruce knew one time of telling her wasn't going to undo years of it being ingrained—but he was starting. He would get there with her. “Twenty snap kicks on each leg. Go.”

And she moved just a bit more practically, more for power.

The next day, Bruce was pretty sure her makeup was less—eyebrows less defined and picture perfect, only chapstick, and so on. She was still wearing more makeup on her face than any of his girls—Cass, Babs, and Steph—had worn in their lives, but it was okay.

He felt like she would understand that looks didn't define her someday. And whether or not she wore makeup—caked on or not—after that, that was up to her. But she would know she had value, and that was what mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I notice that sometimes girls who rely more on their looks (and Bette definitely would) tend to do even things that aren't supposed to be pretty in a pretty way, y'know? It's an honest challenge for a lot of girls when it comes to stuff like sports.
> 
> Volleyball, I feel she did let this hinder her a little, but still was mostly able to get into the game. In a figure-obscuring gi and such, it might feel more necessary.
> 
> Update 2 of three from vacation without internet! :D


	34. Seeing Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara overreacts to protect Dick. Bruce deals with this in light of the knowledge of her mother's murder--and comes to understand her motivation for being a crimefighter.

Barbara was a fast learner, in more than one sense. Sometimes, Bruce felt like she was far more invested in being a crimefighter than Dick ever was—or at least took it more seriously. 

Dick was forever showing off, doing unnecessary backflips and such—once Barbara learned, she was quick to use the most efficient, effective attack, no worries about being 'cool.' It was interesting, because she certainly could have done flips and cartwheels and such, as she was an accomplished gymnast, but—as Bruce concluded—she just was not the same person as Dick.

She also figured out Dick before he figured out her, able to fill in his gaps like she knew his every move—he got there with her too, but it took longer. And Bruce felt like she was more protective of him than he was of her—which was a bit strange. He would almost expect Dick to be the more protective one, but then, as he came to understand Barbara, he came to understand their dynamic.

Barbara had lost her mother to a criminal at a young age. Her father, Jim, had really stepped up as a parent and done everything he could to help her still be healthy and happy—but she still missed her mother, missed what she hadn't known. She still saw the picture of the woman who looked so much like her and felt regret.

It wasn't an attempt to be super cool like Batman. It may have been inspired by him, but she felt a strong sense of justice—and that was a core part of her personality.

It was best demonstrated, the differences between her and Dick, when they were fighting gangbangers and Dick got clocked in the head—he went down, momentarily stunned, and Babs was closer than Bruce. So, she was over there in an instant, standing over him, and viciously using a strike on the man's neck that hit the carotid artery—it was one of the one-move fight kind of techniques that Bruce had taught them. And it had a very high fatality rate compared to other techniques, which sent Bruce's heart leaping into his throat as he ran over.

The thug went down, because striking the carotid disrupted oxygen flow to the brain and when done right, essentially made someone faint—or die. 

Barbara's chest was heaving angrily, her posture rigid as she stood over Dick.

Bruce could see Dick was already rising, going, “Holy cheeseballs, Babs--!” and so he went over to the thug, who turned out to be alive, thank god. He cuffed him quickly, and then turned to Barbara and Dick, snapping, “Batmobile. Now.”

His tone immediately sent them both skittering for the van, clambering in without a word of protest.

Barbara had a sort of huddle close to Dick, peering into his blue eyes as she tried to determine if he was okay, and Bruce felt his anger and fear dissipate a bit, as he alerted the police to the spot and remembered you didn't just move a head injury victim without checking first, and he hadn't checked first—he'd just assumed he was fine.

He got inside the van, on his knees by the sideways seat, and got out his pen-light. He held Dick's chin in his hand, and checked his eyes, instructing him to stay still and keep his eyes open.

He was fine, and he would probably normally be cracking some joke or throwing out a cuss word to make Babs laugh—because cussing with Dick was funny because he rarely ever cussed.

At least, it was funny to the pair of them. Bruce would kind of give a long-suffering sigh, which only made them laugh harder.

But not today. Today, he drove the van to a different spot, and then stopped, getting out of the driver's seat to join them in the back and have a talk. “Barbara. Do you understand what you did?”

“I saved Dick,” she said resolutely. “You said it was for life or death.”

He had. But he sighed anyway. “You could have stopped him without such a dangerous strike, Barbara. You could have neutralized him—instead, you chose to use a potentially deadly strike--”

“Bruce, any move is potentially deadly,” Barbara parroted back at him, and he wanted to hold his head in his hands. Instead, he looked her straight in the eye, her green gaze looking straight back at him rather levelly.

“Yes, but some are far more likely to be fatal than others, and you know that. You knew that has a high fatality rate compared to a punch or a kick or so on. That thug could have been stopped without death or such a close call. All you needed to do was stop him--” he continued as Barbara tried to cut in, “And that wasn't a situation that required deadly force. Dick was in danger, yes, but his opponent was highly unskilled and could have easily just been toppled over based on his poor posture alone.”

Dick squirmed a little and laid his head on Barbara's shoulder. She seemed to be steaming a little.

“He could have died, you know,” Barbara pointed out. “That guy wasn't holding back.”

Bruce sighed. “He would not have. You were there, Barbara, and I am glad you protected him—but you overreacted. You overcompensated. And if you can't understand why that's not okay, I'm benching you—for now.”

Barbara seemed to be chewing at her lip—hard to tell, given the mask over her face below her eyes. She put a hand on Dick's cheek, and murmured, “I'm sorry.”

It was a good response, Bruce supposed—better than open defiance. But she continued.

“I was really—I didn't want Dick dead. I wanted—I was mad. I was fucking pissed off! I just—no one should fucking kill--!” 

Dick had grabbed her tightly, wriggling out of his seat to wrap his arms around her. “It's okay, Babs. I'm not gonna die, I swear. Know why?”

Babs let out a sort of sniffle sound, letting out a wavering, “Why?”

“Cause you and Bruce are looking out for me, and I'm looking out for you. You think thugs have that?” Dick had his face buried in her shoulder, kind of awkwardly avoiding not straddling her lap on the one-person seat, and Bruce felt a sort of twinge in his chest.

It was good they had each other. It was good.

Dick certainly had a temper and felt things strongly—but he could be calm when Babs was upset, and vice versa. It was _healthy_ , far healthier than a lot of dynamics he'd seen.

Bruce sighed, though with more of an 'I understand' sort of feeling. “I know, Barbara. I know it's scary. And, honestly, I am still going to bench you—but not as some sort of punishment. You reacted very strongly, and you need a break for a bit to deal with this. To recuperate. And we're going to work on your aikido during that time. Okay?”

Barbara nodded, arms wrapped around Dick. “I'm sorry. I'm going to do better.”

“I know.” Bruce patted her head, but not in a 'good puppy' way, and headed for the front. They'd best get back home—Babs needs to get back home before three AM.

Her dad was usually aware of the world once it was three AM.

And besides which, Jason might need checked on—he was doing very well and usually slept through the night, but Bruce didn't feel good leaving for more than a couple hours or so a night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Babs'd be affected differently by her mother's murder than Dick was by his parents' murders--primarily because they're different people, even if there are differences in circumstances. Babs's mother's death was rather at random, whereas Dick's were unexpected but certainly not random.
> 
> But yeah. I hope you like it! I am kinda delving into their relationship, I guess. 
> 
> Third and final update of the day from vacation with no internet, lol!


	35. The Bouffant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass is learning how to do things she wants to do--instead of pure needs or what someone else wants.
> 
> And that involves the Dick Van Dyke Show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fluff chapter! :D

Cass had very much missed out on growing up with TV shows and such. From what Bruce had learned of her past, media in general was forbidden as a distraction to her training as an assassin. When she had been on the streets, which she had been for an alarming amount of time, she hadn't had much opportunity beyond occasionally watching the TVs in shops.

So, she seemed to latch on to the retro channel, liking the low-stress plotlines and the domesticity.

She had been watching the Dick Van Dyke Show of late (and Tim had helpfully supplied her with more recent pictures of Dick Van Dyke), and Bruce was surprised to find her holding a picture of Mrs. Van Dyke. He thought her name was Mary, but he couldn't remember for sure—just knew enough to know who she was.

It was blurry, printed on paper rather than an actual photo, and had the woman giving a charming smile to the camera, a sort of innocent 'is this really a camera?' kind of look her face. Far from, say, Mae West, which were not quite the same era, Bruce thought.

He smiled at Cass, and asked, “What's this?”

To his surprise, she shyly pressed the paper against her chest, and pressed her lips together. “Just mine.”

Bruce wasn't certain what to make of it. He also didn't want to make it bigger than it was, so he just smiled again, and said, “Okay. Don't print out too many pictures, but if you have a few you want to, feel free. Maybe 5-8, okay?”

She nodded, and headed up the stairs.

Bruce had been on his way up there anyhow, to check on Tim, who was suffering what he found the obnoxious symptoms of strep throat. He was healing, but he was still supposed to rest—and chances were, that wasn't quite what he was doing.

He passed by the girls' room on his way—and paused as he heard voices.

“This. Please.”

There was the crinkle of paper, and he heard Bette let out a giggle—not a mean one, just a surprised one. “Well, I've never quite done that one—but I bet I can! Like, you'll look totally flower child or whatever, right?”

Bruce smiled to himself—he was pretty certain he knew what was going on, and it made him happy to hear the two getting along and doing sisterly sort of things.

He found Tim, who was most definitely not resting, instead working through physics (which was a series related to movies—very clever, but still hard work), and had to give him that look that said, 'You know you should be resting.'

Tim had almost groaned, caught himself before he hurt his throat, and then abashedly gone to bed. Bruce had smoothed down his hair, something Tim quite liked, and made sure the covers were pulled up and he was in bed and not just about to spring out of it once he left. 

And then, that done, he left the room.

Cass nearly ran into him, and her grin was contagious. She looked a little shy at seeing him, but Bette was behind her, saying, with clear pride and delight, “Isn't she fucking gorgeous? I didn't even put anything on her face!”

Cass seemed to blush a little.

It was sixties style hair, that whole flipped up edges thing going on, the name of which escaped Bruce. It definitely could not have been done without copious amounts of hairspray.

“It looks lovely, Cass,” he replied, smiling at her. It was the truth, even if it sort of was a dated look.

She beamed, and ran to go show Tim.

So much for him sleeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted a bouffant kind of hairstyle 'like Phoebe on Magic School Bus!' when I was a kid. My hair apparently naturally does the flip out/flare when it's short enough, but yeah.
> 
> I thought it might cute if Cass liked Laura Petry and wanted her hair. (And in the Dick Van Dyke show, he was Rob Petry, not Dick Van Dyke. Bruce doesn't know the difference. :P)


	36. Fucking Fuji Apples--in a Jar!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason loves food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got some Fuji Apples in a Jar--and you'd think it was Christmas all over again, the way my sis reacted. XD She's sweet.
> 
> I thought maybe Jason would feel similarly about it. Also, this would be a few months into him living with them, I suppose. It's a little gray in terms of timeline.

One thing about Jason—he appreciated literally any food that Bruce put in front of him. Bruce had yet to hear him complain about anything.

Everything from ramen to hamburgers to the cheap vegetable noddles that he could get from the weird supermarket down the street—Jason would eat it all with gusto.

But Bruce was still surprised by the level of reverence and pure delight that Jason displayed at one of the items he brought home one day.

It had been on sale, and Bruce had thought it was a good buy—they always needed fruits and veggies, and if it came in a jar, it would be able to keep for much longer. A buck was a steal for a jar that size, in any case, even if it was supposed be sold by next month when most of them were supposed to last for a year or more.

But the fuji apple slices sat in the crystal clear syrup, and Jason, who had been helping him put away groceries, just sat there, looking at, cross-legged on the floor where he'd been digging things out of he large paper bag. 

Bruce stood over him, though not too close. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh my god,” Jason had murmured, “These are apples! And not like, weird applesauce or some shit.”

It occurred to Bruce that Jason certainly hadn't had access to such food on the street—and it would look like a luxury to him. He smiled at him, trying to keep the sadness out of it. “Yes, they're for you and Dick to split with dinner.”

Bruce didn't much like apples. They were okay, but a steady diet of cheap applesauce had ruined them for him when he was in foster care. That and cheap, watery yogurt and weird wheat bread that was a dollar a loaf made him loathe food for a while there. 

Not even mentioning the lunch 'meat' that went on his sandwiches with a thin smear of mayonnaise substitute that did poorly trying to disguise its bad flavor.

Jason looked up, suddenly suspicious. He cradled the jar to his chest, asking quietly, “What do I need to do?”

This question shocked Bruce, but he didn't show it, instead replying, “Just be my foster son, Jason. That's all.”

Jason's eyes narrowed a little, and he looked at the slightly honey-colored appearance of the apples in the syrup. “Yeah. Yeah, this's really for me?”

“It is,” Bruce confirmed. “You don't need to do anything to deserve food here, Jason. Not even tasty food.”

Jason's eyes seemed to glow a little, as he traced the metal lid of the jar. He suddenly jumped up, running through the house. “Dick! Dick, we have fucking _Fuji apples in a jar!_ ”

Bruce laughed a little to himself about Jason's excitement. It was endearing, even if he was supposed to be curbing Jason's swearing, according to CPS. 

He'd have to see what fruit he could find next week if Jason was going to be so happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write a lot of short fluff chapters, honestly. I was brainstorming at work today, as my co-workers can attest to. They thought my handwriting was me doodling, though, lol.
> 
> *cannot write by hand like at all*
> 
> Thank god for keyboards.
> 
> :)


	37. Cogito Ergo Sum Canis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim couldn't impress Janet if he became president and singlehandedly saved the world from an asteroid--but Bruce knows that doesn't mean he won't stop trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a play in Latin on Cogito Ergo Sum - I think, therefore I am. :) Not a fluff chapter. :P

Bruce wasn't certain if Tim dreaded or anticipated his visits with his mother eagerly. He seemed to do both in turn, nervously gnawing at his fingernails and also doing his best to look well put together for them.

He had also put a lot of effort into schoolwork of late, to the point that Bruce often had to gently remind him he was still recovering and needed to go to bed. Tim always sort of shrunk when he said this, no matter how gently or nicely, but he would get into bed.

Today was another such visit—and Bruce knew Tim had worked very hard on his project.

It was in his history class—the focus was on Roman history, and they were going over art. They'd been challenged to make a piece of Roman-style art for extra credit, and of course, Tim had basically gone overboard in chasing this one.

By overboard, of course, Bruce meant it was a pretty good piece for a twelve year old.

And especially for extra credit and not an assignment. It was a good school Tim was going to, one that Bruce had to essentially bus him to every morning using his rattling old pickup, but it was private and the tuition was paid, and it had been agreed that switching Tim over to a local school would probably be disastrous.

He was clutching the assignment in his hands, the extra twenty five points (which was five over the max of twenty offered, the teacher was that impressed), sitting on the couch and awaiting the arrival of his mother.

It was two minutes til she was supposed to arrive.

Ms. Walker sat there, smiling at Tim and making small talk about school—how his math was doing, what his English assignment was this week, if he had enough supplies—when Mrs. Drake walked in.

Tim immediately went silent, and Bruce caught the way his fingers minutely curled tighter around the art project, the way he pulled it closer to him just slightly as his eyes focused on his mother.

“Hello, honey,” Janet said, settling in the seat across from him. Bruce would have been stupid to expect she'd just up and offer physical affection, but it still irked him that she didn't.

He didn't say anything, though, having learned enough from the last time.

“Hi, Mom,” Tim said, and he watched her like one watched a machine that might go wrong at any moment—unpredictable.

Janet gave him a brief smile, and checked her phone. She put it away after a moment, and nodded to Ms. Walker. “Ms. Walker,” she said, a certain amount of iciness to her tone. She didn't acknowledge Bruce.

Ms. Walker nodded back, and said, “Tim, why don't you tell your mother what you've been up to?”

She had definitely seen the excitement he had over the project, the way he'd been squirming—before his mother got there and he sort of folded in a bit, stilling.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Drake glanced at the project, before it was uncovered, and a sort of look crossed her face. Bruce couldn't quite put a finger on it—was she disappointed? Disinterested? Sure it would not measure up or that it would be a bother?

Tim licked his lips a moment, then uncovered it.

Bruce had been very impressed. It was a recreation of a (clean) Roman mosaic, well done given what materials Tim had to work with—paper squares, which he took the time to color in to roughly the right shade. It had taken him hours upon hours—and it was a neat picture of a dog from Roman times, the label 'Canis' beneath it, canis being Latin for dog.

He could see Tim's eyes watching his mother for a reaction, eyes a bit bright and hopeful and even a bit proud.

Until he saw his mother's expression.

“Oh, Timothy...” she sighed, “There's not a lot of color there, and a lot of those squares are bit crooked. Does a large part of your grade depend on this? I really hope it doesn't—you know you're not very artistic, it can't be helped, but I'll talk to the teacher if that's the case. It isn't fair to grade you on a skill you don't have.”

The way Tim seemed to shrivel had Bruce's blood boiling. It was all he could do not to burst forth with his anger and set Janet straight.

“Mrs. Drake, this was for an extra credit assignment, and Timothy has already been graded—he received five bonus points on top of the twenty already offered for his hard work,” Ms. Walker said, obviously pointedly keeping a professional tone.

Tim nodded, head ducking down over the project. He quickly straightened it up, biting the inside of his cheek, clearly.

“Really?” Mrs. Drake seemed skeptical.

“Yes. He spent hours working on it, and the teacher was very impressed,” Ms. Walker replied.

“This was for history class?” Janet asked, as if trying to remember what classes Tim took—which shouldn't be all that hard, given he wasn't in high school or college. They got more diversified as a kid got older.

And, of course, Tim was her son—her only child.

Tim nodded, saying quietly but somewhat formally, “Yes, it was for my history class. We were going over Ancient Rome and Ancient Greece of late. Mosaics were important and made of glass squares or cubes.”

“Then perhaps you should have used glass,” Janet said rather offhandedly, but then continued, as Tim continued to shrink, “Why would you focus so much on history class, though? You know that math and science are far more important—it's how you're going to get scholarships and provide for yourself, because god knows we're not going to pay for your college—and you're not going to get a sports scholarship.”

Bruce had never wanted to fight a civilian, a nonviolent person, so much, he was sure—not since childhood. Still, he remembered before, and he stayed quiet. He would have to remind Tim he did a wonderful job, and Janet didn't know him.

He was capable of so much.

“I know,” Tim said quietly, “I'm getting A's in everything but...” he trailed off, starting to chew on his lip.

“But?” Janet prompted, seeming to zero in like a hawk.

“I, uh...I am at a B+ in advanced algebra,” Tim almost whispered, ducking his head down over his project.

If Jason had had such grades at his age in school, Bruce would have been ecstatic. He would have celebrated the end of the quarter with such grades, with some fruit salad and soda—root beer, one of Jason's favorites. Possibly with some ice cream in it for good measure.

But Janet's face was severely disapproving. “Why do you have a B+ in algebra, Timothy Jackson?”

Tim flinched at the use of his middle name, and squirmed under the look. “I missed some of the concepts, the uh, formulas, and I'm caught up now, but I got...a lower grade than usual on a test.”

Janet's eyes narrowed. “What was that lower grade?”

Tim looked like he didn't want to talk. He pinched his lips between his teeth, and ran his fingers on his dog's jaw. When Janet's look didn't let up, he muttered, “It was a 78.”

Janet let out a disgusted groan. “Apparently, you've caught the stupid from this liberal nutcase.”

Bruce could feel a cracking sort of sensation in his hands as he clenched the table. He'd been sitting there, doing a bit of light paperwork, to give Tim a sense of security—but good god, he was going to kill that woman.

“Mrs. Drake, that kind of talk will not be tolerated,” Ms. Walker said sharply. “Don't verbally abuse your son or talk about his foster father that way. It won't go well for your case.”

Janet let out a scoff. “'Verbal abuse?' You liberal pansies will call anything you can abuse, won't you? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. You all want our children to be soft and coddled, don't you? It's why those poor kids do so badly in school—you try to make them feel better about being stupid, instead of pushing them, and where does it get them?”

Bruce could have broken the table, he was sure. He _was_ one of those poor kids—and he hardly recalled being _coddled_ and such. And that she was acting this way towards Tim just made him glad he was well-trained to not kill her—to hold his temper in check. Breathe. Count.

Because Tim was such a wonderful boy—smart, sensitive, precise, articulate, artistic, determined—among many other things, and Janet just seemed annoyed he existed and wasn't perfect to put in a glass case. That he dared to be organic.

Ms. Walker said, “Mrs. Drake. Focus on your son and not your politics or philosophy or your problems with social ills. He needs his mother present.”

Janet sighed—and launched into a 'conversation' with Tim. By which Bruce meant that she started talking about one of her favorite things (her women's book club, which read books that Bruce didn't think Tim would have the faintest interest in) and got Tim's preprogrammed responses.

It lasted the rest of the time, and Janet left promptly on time.

Bruce could see the way Tim's eyes followed her, and then, once she was out of sight, he curled a bit tighter around his project.

Bruce felt like Janet undid his progress every time she came—but what could he do? She was his mother. So instead, as Ms. Walker left, wishing Tim a good afternoon, he came around to in front of the couch, and went down to Tim's level.

“It's a shame she doesn't see it. That mosaic is amazing, especially given your materials—you did an excellent job, and your teacher's grading reflects that.”

Tim nodded. He didn't say anything.

Bruce sighed, and stood. “Would you like some chicken stars?”

Tim's head almost whipped up, and his eyes were hopeful. “Really? But I failed at the family meeting...”

“You didn't fail, Tim. You did everything you could have,” Bruce said. “I'm proud of you. I hope you know that.”

Tim squirmed, and said, “I'll get the pot out—the two-quart?”

“Make it the three quart,” Bruce responded, inwardly sighing.

And they had soup, and quietly talked about Roman culture until Tim really got into it and was unloading all his knowledge of Roman mosaics on Bruce.

It had Bruce smiling—it was nice to see Tim's eyes spark that way.

Janet could only dim the light temporarily, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a thing. Pigeonholing, I guess, plus Janet's politics. :P I think we'll see the Kanes soon enough, though, to balance things out.


	38. Tryptophan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's first Thanksgiving in the Wayne family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is fluff! And a bad attempt at saying grace. :P

It was the first Thanksgiving with Jason.

And the boy was staring at all the food.

It was a small turkey, and Bruce hadn't really bothered with turkey in previous years, given that Dick hadn't celebrated it that way anyway, and he didn't have an attachment to having turkey on thanksgiving—plus the expense. Turkeys weren't the cheapest food, and he'd had to put away grocery money for it, because while it would certainly make for good sandwiches and soups for some time afterward, it was still a big purchase all at once.

Cranberry sauce too, the kind in cans. Pistachio pudding and chocolate pudding from powder and milk. An apple pie that was a little smashed and therefore less expensive—but just as tasty. Mashed potatoes—it was only time that was an issue with those, as potatoes were cheap and so the bowl was the biggest they had and full to the brim.

No stuffing. Bruce hadn't been able to find any, and he was pretty certain that he would not put together a satisfactory one anyway.

Plus, a bit of juice—a huge treat, given its lack of necessity. Literally, it was sugar water, little nutrition. This one was cran-apple, and came in a decent sized plastic jug.

He wished he'd been able to get his hands on apple cider, but it was hard to get in this part of the city.

Jason's eyes were big, and he finally whispered, “Who are we having over?”

Dick laughed at that, squeezing Jason's shoulders. “It's for us cause it's Thanksgiving! Leftovers are part of Thanksgiving!”

Bruce smiled at the look on Jason's face. The boy sat at the table immediately, looking like he wanted to dig right in.

“This looks like in the commercials!” Jason said, still seeming in awe.

It was hardly as photogenic as the commercials—but then, Jason did not have much experience with real Thanksgiving dinners, Bruce supposed. He was glad he'd pulled this together, instead of Dick's and his more typical Thanksgiving.

He had talked to Dick about it beforehand, and Dick had approved wholeheartedly—as evidenced even now by the grin on his face. The older boy slid into his seat next to Jason, and said, with a kind of smirk, “We have to say grace, right, Bruce?”

While Dick was, by technicality, Christian, his parents were never very strong believers, especially given a lack of emphasis on their Romani heritage. Occasionally, Dick referenced 'Saint Sarah' but most of the time, he found formalized religious ceremonies kind of funny.

Bruce gave him a smile back. “Yes, we're going to say grace.”

He sat at the table, which was fortunately holding up under the turkey and all, and said, feeling a bit awkward in all honesty, “We give thanks today for all the good things the year has brought us. For our family in particular, for Dick, and for Jason.”

“And for you!” Dick chimed in, grin contagious, as if he knew how awkward Bruce felt trying to say grace.

Jason was looking down at his hands, which were interlinked tightly. He seemed to be taking this a lot more seriously than Dick was.

Bruce gave Dick a look, and continued on, “We give thanks for a good year—no serious ER visits, enough students, and a lot of learning and growing going on.”

Dick was still grinning, as if to say, 'You have no idea how to finish this thing you're doing, do you?'

But Bruce soldiered on. “We give thanks for all the good that we were able to do this year. For the good people we met. And for the continued presence of our friends in our lives.”

“Amen!” Jason said fervently, thank god ending the thanks for him.

Bruce accepted that, and repeated, “Amen.”

“Let's eat, little wing!” Dick said, hastily helping Jason to mounds of mashed potatoes and other food.

Bruce cut up the turkey (which he'd had to look up on the internet) and served them slices.

Jason was practically glowing. It wasn't just the food, Bruce knew—it was the feeling of belonging. Of family. He kept excitedly talking to Dick and him about just about anything throughout the whole meal, and it was a wonderful difference from almost a year ago when Bruce had found him.

It was also adorable by the end of the meal, the evening, as they sat and watched a movie Dick had chosen from the library—American Tail.

Jason had eaten so much mashed potatoes and turkey that he outright fell asleep, leaning against Bruce and letting out incredibly soft little snores. By the time the movie ended, Bruce carried him up to bed, and let a somewhat drowsy Dick climb in next to him, the elder boy yawning but also giving Bruce this look like, 'Look, we succeeded. We're awesome at kids.'

Bruce brushed back Dick's hair affectionately, as if to remind him he was one of the kids too, and headed to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda did some research on Romani religion, seeing as Dick is Romani, though it's been canonically stated he knows little about his heritage. Most Roma have adopted the religion of their area, having immigrated from India like a thousand years ago--but there are still traces of their original Hindu religion, such as Saint Sarah, aka Kali Sarah, who is recognized now as a religious translation of Kali, the Hindu goddess.
> 
> As for Jason, I'm kinda toying with him being half-Latino, cause I've seen some pretty good headcanons for that and Gotham is pretty ethnically diverse. But yeah, we'll see on that.
> 
> And Bruce is not exactly religious, but he wants to try to do 'the family things' for Jason. :P
> 
> Also, he'll probably dislike the idea of Thanksgiving more and more as he gets older--cause of the historical significance. But Bruce is a changing character, and at this point, he's not exactly all that aware of the origins of Thanksgiving, or more accurately, their implications. I will show you the trajectory of how Bruce feels about Thanksgiving in future chapters. :P


	39. Spoiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Stephanie! :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess mild spoilers (lol) for Lord of the Rings?

Stephanie was a bit different. Not crazy or weird—but like them. So, different from most people, from what many people might assume from her long, blonde hair or blue eyes.

Or perhaps they would have assumed that younger—Bruce got the feeling that Stephanie was exactly the sort of person the Kanes or the Drakes would have heartily disapproved of. She had a certain amount of rebellion to her.

As clearly indicated by taking up the name Spoiler and getting into crime-fighting alone.

It wasn't hard for him to track her down, in all honesty—her aubergine jacket was the same one as the one she always wore, just with the addition of thick pants and gloves and a face cover. Oh, and steel-toed boots.

Plus, she didn't live so far away—and her father was a small-time crime boss. Boss was a bit of a stretch, as he certainly wasn't 'top dog,' but his criminal ways were more than mere shoplifting or purse snatching, that was certain. Bruce had been keeping an eye on him about the time that Spoiler emerged, and—you guessed it—spoiled both his and her father's plans.

It came from a kind of good intention, and so he'd quickly sought her out, as Tim and Cass followed along behind him, backup and curious. Cass's black costume, with the yellow-rimmed symbol of a bat marking her as Batgirl, let her almost seamlessly blend into the night—the dark red coloring of Tim's jacket let a certain amount of blending in too, but he was still just a bit more obvious than Cass—and his robin symbol stood out proudly on his chest.

Not so proudly it was an easy target, though. Just enough to let people know who he was--Robin, not a thug. Because identity was important to criminals, but even more important to people who were often victimized. They had to know instantly that this was one of the Bats--the crazy vigilantes who thrashed criminals, but would never harm an innocent.

Spoiler was not hard to find--her father had been in the midst of a shipment of illegal drugs--not something more big-time like coke or meth, but simply prescription meds that got people high. And caused overdoses in an alarming amount of the teen and young adult population.

She was breaking through a standard padlock with a crow bar when they came upon her. She simply smashed it, as if she had done it many times, hitting the correct pressure points to break it easily.

"Spoiler," Bruce had said, Batman voice on and tone stern. He was always a bit more stern and authoritative as Batman, though he would not ruin his voice by adding a growl or something when unnecessary. It wasn't as though people would be able to conflate his teaching or parenting voice with his crimefighting voice.

It was a world of difference.

Stephanie looked up, and immediately went into an attack sort of stance. Sort of, because her martial arts was decent, but clearly not consistently trained. Like she'd learned from many different places. And even when she said, "Batman," she didn't relax her stance at all.

He could practically feel the way Tim and Cass were watching curiously.

"What are you doing?" Batman replied, keeping a stern line to his mouth. He wasn't about to encourage renegade kids to go into crime-fighting by themselves. He wasn't even one hundred percent certain encouraging kids to crime-fight with him was a smart idea, or okay.

Stephanie scoffed, saying, "Spoiling shit. What's it look like?"

And he was vaguely reminded of Jason, a sort of uncomfortable swelling his chest and throat. He focused on Stephanie, though.

"Do you understand the danger you're putting yourself in?"

Stephanie snorted. "Are you serious right now? Cause, in case you didn't notice, you got a kid probably younger than me over there--yeah, I see you, little bird--and probably that chick around too. Yup, there she is."

Bruce would have to tell Cass not to reveal herself when he didn't give the signal, because he knew she certainly didn't get seen when she didn't want to. Tim, on the other hand...probably not nearly so intentional.

"They're with me. You're alone. A lone hero often ends up dead." This was something Bruce had kind of come to terms with, despite his early history of working alone. People changed, came to understand why things were the way they were. And what was a good idea and what wasn't.

"Pfft. Yeah, cause there's no chance I'd end up dead anyway--thanks, Copernicus! Unless you're trying to be a fortune cookie, in which case, great job! You should sell that one to Li's Panda Restaurant down the street!" 

Okay, Stephanie was sort of getting on his nerves. At least with Barbara there was a bit of awe and respect. Stephanie was reacting to him like--

He had the sudden realization he was not the person to talk to her. He nodded to Cass and Tim, a gesture which both would understand.

"Please speak with my associates."

Stephanie's head quirked to the side, but she didn't protest.

Tim and Cass came up, and Bruce could see the grin on Cass's face--well-hidden, but evident. She _liked_ Stephanie, and of course she would.

"Hey. Uh, I'm Robin," Tim said, a bit awkwardly, but still in that endearing way in which he was trying hard to be genuine.

"Yeah, I noticed," Stephanie responded, but there was a whole hell of a lot less barb in the statement--she was eyeing him in a way that suddenly made Bruce feel a touch uncomfortable.

"Yeah. And this's Batgirl--you probably know that. Uh..." Tim was struggling, "You know, Batman's right. It's really dangerous to do this alone."

"Oh, is it?"

"It is. Um, you know how...oh, in Lord of the Rings, they have the whole fellowship thing? I mean, if it'd just been Frodo alone, he would have died immediately--and anyone else would have been consumed by the One Ring."

Leave it to Tim to make a nerdy explanation like that. Bruce wasn't certain it would work--but then Steph responded, a sort of smirk clear under her mask,

"Ah, but Frodo did end up alone, didn't he? And they almost got him killed."

"No, he didn't. Sam was with him. He tried to go alone, and he almost died."

Stephanie was clearly grinning. "Well, if you're going to talk Lord of the Rings with me, you're going to have to acknowledge that I am hardly Frodo--more of an Eowyn."

"And she almost died too," Tim responded steadily.

"Almost, but she won--she beat the Witch-King."

"And her brother was devastated by her near-death, and she also didn't go alone--she had Merry with her."

"Well, yes, but if she had just been allowed to join the rest of the army, there wouldn't have been a problem, would there have been? Yeah, she would have been in mortal danger like any of the Rohirrim, but she wouldn't have had to resort to disguising herself and sneaking in. Cause she was there either way."

Bruce swore he'd never seen a more smug teenager in his life.

Tim seemed to falter a little on that--but Cass was more than ready to jump in.

"Join us, then."

Bruce could only just keep in the sigh. That was certainly a Cass-type response.

And now Stephanie's eyebrows seemed to raise. "Is that an offer? Would I be like, junior-junior agent or whatever?"

Bruce already knew a bit about Stephanie--who she was, her issues at school (expelled once, suspended several times for various reasons), and how she was the sort of 'bad girl' a family from middle class surburbia would weep over their children befriending.

But, Cass had made the offer--and he found he didn't necessarily want to retract it.

He knew enough to know that if her identity was found out, she'd be in as grave danger as them, and so he said, "Meet me at this address, Saturday at noon. You'll learn how to do this the right way."

Stephanie's eyebrows rose as she took the piece of paper from him. "Huh. Kay."

"Now, go home. We'll handle this--for tonight." Bruce was firm on that, and he thought Stephanie might rebel against the notion.

But she sort of did a sideways head nod, and said, "For tonight. Tonight only. Okay? If I don't like it, I'm going back to doing things my way."

And Bruce was taking a big risk, in all honesty. Because if Stephanie did go back to doing things her way, he could not turn her in without risking all their identities.

But Cass believed in Stephanie, believed she was trustworthy--and he trusted Cass's intuition.

Stephanie went home, and they made quick work of the pharmaceuticals. 

On the way back, he could see Cass keep nudging Tim, a secret between them. It made him smile--and pretend he didn't notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for Steph, she sorta has a problem with authority--particularly authority that makes her think of her father. Which we will get into. She has a bit of basis in my twin, cause I was struggling a bit with characterization. I feel like she's been a titch flat in general depiction in canon, but I'm not sure. I don't know her character as well.
> 
> And she is a huge nerd. :P


	40. Red Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce nearly loses it when Ra's al Ghul makes the demand that he join the League of Assassins--and uses Dick as bait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based in the comics! A similar thing legit happened with tiny Dick.

Ra's had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Bruce was hardly connected with deadly assassins, only tangentially at best--he was in the martial arts world, and that had a certain amount of crossover with secret groups.

All Bruce knew, of course, was that Ra's had targeted him upon coming to Gotham. Not a direct attack, no--instead, after watching him crime-fight with Dick, who was about nine and a half at that point, he approached him.

Offered him a place among the assassins, and training for him and 'the boy.'

Bruce had politely declined.

Ra's had not seemed pleased, but he left.

And so, when he woke up to a weird feeling, a sort of sixth sense, he decided to definitely listen to it. He checked in on Dick, feeling a sort of chill throughout the house--and he froze in the doorway as he saw the empty bed. He was quickly throwing aside lumps of blanket, the pillow--nothing. No grinning little boy to pop out and declare that he'd scared him, had he seen his face?

It was like ice shards in his stomach.

He checked the bathroom, reminding himself not to panic, that Dick may have merely gotten up--but that was empty, and a search of the house only yielded one thing: a note.

A note written in what appeared to be blood and fancy calligraphy.

_Since you have declined my invitation to enter the Assassins League the easy way, you will have to enter the hard way. The boy is in my possession, and will remain so until you win him back and join with me--otherwise, he shall be trained as another of my assassins without you on hand. You may walk away, if you choose. It is entirely your choice, Batman._

Didn't even bother to sign it--but it was heavily apparent who it was.

Bruce had thought once he would kill only for hardened criminals, people who were the sort who did the most base and vile all in one crime, and he would manage to hold himself back from the murderous urges--but right that moment, he was blazing with a desperation, a want to tear Ra's limb from limb.

Dick was his _child_ \--and Bruce had never thought he'd feel such a strong fury, a need to protect, like Dick was the only person in the world who mattered. He managed to reign himself in, take deep breaths.

If he just went in guns blazing, he was going to die, and then Dick would be trained to be an assassin. He couldn't imagine a worse torture for a child, couldn't imagine a way that would ruin Dick more. He had a small amount of knowledge of what kind of training assassins went through in such groups--one particular world-reknowned martial artist stood out.

Walking on people, until they got strong enough and tough enough not to _break ribs_ \--the kind of pushups where one punched metal between pushes, an agonizing way to get strong and very tough fists--running out in the cold, the snow, at the risk of collapsing and dying of hypothermia.

And that was some of the more tame stuff. He couldn't even think into the worse things when he pictured it happening to his small nine year old son.

Bruce knew because he'd done a good deal of that--had nearly died a time or two seeking to become great. Not quite assassin training, but he had been a grown man, able to make the choice himself--he could have left any time he wanted. Dick would have no such option.

He'd gotten whatever tools he could--grappling tools for climbing, brass knuckles to reinforce his hits, a taser--and the gun that he had recently confiscated from a thug.

He'd paused. His hand hovered over the gun, a sort of cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Could he break this rule, this fear of his, for Dick?

Then he decided, hand closing around it. A last resort. Very last. He _had_ to save Dick, whatever the cost.

He fought his way through the League, finding the headquarters in the area fairly easily--not that it was easy to find, just that he'd had some knowledge of it beforehand. He knew about what areas would be best for such a place too, and that aided his search.

He made it to a large room, where Ra's was sitting on his throne--a throne, of all things, but Bruce supposed it suited him.

He didn't think much on it, blood boiling as he saw Dick sitting in Nyssa al Ghul's lap, skin pale, eyes closed--clearly not conscious, as Nyssa let his head pillow on her shoulder. She gave him a brief smile, and Bruce could have killed in that moment.

Ra's rose from his throne. "Very good, Bruce Wayne. I am impressed that you've--"

"Give me my son," Bruce growled, a sort of anger racing through his veins, making it impossible to stand still. He wanted to fight--he wanted to cradle Dick in his arms and hold him tight to his chest, where the boy would be safe.

Ra's raised an eyebrow. "At least I know you'll take this seriously, then."

They fought.

Bruce nearly died.

Ra's did.

And Nyssa, without so much as blinking, handed over Dick. "Consider yourself welcomed--you and the boy--"

"Tell him--tell all of them--they touch me and mine again, and I will tear you apart no matter what it takes," Bruce interrupted, voice raspy with blood in his lungs. He cradled Dick anyway, the child blessedly asleep in his arms.

He limped out, ignoring the part where Nyssa dragged Ra's to the Lazarus pit.

That part was the only part that soothed his conscience in the days ahead. That he wasn't as much of a murderer as he could have been--that his victim was not dead.

It was what shaped him to never kill again, ever. 

Because that blood-red night had told him that if he let himself recklessly kill, he could kill many, many people. He could lose himself.

And that was why he could never do that again.

No matter what happened.

Dick didn't even know what had happened, thank god--and Bruce didn't tell him, at least for now. The boy was simply content to cuddle up in bed with him, a little bemused at the comfort when he didn't think he needed it, but more than willing to make Bruce feel better.

He had no idea it was for his protection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I kinda hoped this'd show why Bruce is so against killing--because he may have. He is not one hundred percent certain who he has killed, but he's pretty sure some of the assassins died that night--and technically, so did Ra's.
> 
> So yeah. Hope you liked it!


	41. Strong Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy's past--why he was adopted by Oliver Queen--comes to light.

Roy had a past that Bruce had not really initially guessed.

There were some things that were very obvious: an orphan of some kind. Naturally talented at archery. A deep-seated desire to prove himself--and be loved for it.

Probably a lack of affection for a long time--but there had been some.

It was when he saw Roy sitting on the couch with Dick, the redhead up and in a pair of gray sweats and a baggy Mario Bros t-shirt, that he got to hear some of it.

He'd sat down in the chair (which was his bed, at this point), mug in hand--a lot of them were getting over colds, and herbal tea helped a lot--and seen the pair talking, Dick with his textbook for sociology on his knee as he sat Indian-style.

They didn't stop just cause he'd arrived. In fact, Dick was quick to include him.

"Did you know that Roy's kinda Navajo?"

Bruce was about to correct him with a grimace (it wasn't nice to say they were 'kinda' their heritage), when Roy seemed to flush a bit, and spoke.

"Not really. Not where it counts."

"He means not by blood," Dick explained, seeming to think this was pretty interesting--but also with the tone of caring for his friend. "He was crying cause Tim was playing a Navajo version of Sally's Song from Nightmare Before Christmas."

"Not _really_ crying," Roy murmured, but it was a half-hearted lie; they all knew he'd cried a lot more since coming to stay with them, since sinking into his depression.

Bruce gave him an empathetic look. "It's okay, Roy. You miss people or things from your past; you don't need permission for that."

Roy shifted a bit, and muttered, "Just one person."

Bruce didn't pry, though it seemed like Roy wanted to talk about it. There was no need to rush him along--Roy was not someone generally given to sharing feelings, in a lot of ways, despite being the sort of person who had a lot of them. As Bruce understood it, Oliver had very much discouraged the expression of any feeling that might make _him_ uncomfortable, though this was probably less an intentional thing and more of a childish self-centeredness, in Bruce's opinion.

It reminded him just a bit of Tim's parents.

"Um, his name was--Raymond Begay. He also went by Strong Bow," Roy seemed a little embarrassed at that, for some reason. "Uh, you see, we... _they_ sometimes have American names, and a Navajo last name, and uh, often a...a..."

He cleared his throat. "Anyway. Ray was my foster father. It's not really common for kids like me to end up on a reservation--I mean, it's way more likely a kid'll get shipped _out_ than in, and especially not someone like me. But my dad was an employee there--he did stuff out on the reservation, I don't know a lot about what. And he saved Ray's life--and died. I was three. I don't remember him. So, uh, Ray took me in."

Dick was looking proud--not of himself, but of Roy. Of him being able to share, especially with Bruce. He looked to Roy encouragingly, that slight smile around the corners of his mouth.

Roy was rubbing at a callous on his thumb--it was certainly a well-worn hand, given the archery and martial arts he did, even now. "I...the other kids, it was...different. I mean, they weren't bad, or whatever--a lot of kids there _look_ like me, it's not..."

He cleared his throat. "People didn't like me." He had this look on his face, a 'No surprise there, I'm sure.' 

"Then...Ray suggested I get adopted out. I didn't know why then--I just thought he'd bent to pressure, you know? Cause I was flirting with this girl--I mean, I was, what, ten? But yeah. I thought he wanted to kick me out." Roy kind of gave a sniffle, his face betraying no signs of the anguish he must have felt.

"And that's where Queen came in," Dick said, a bit softly.

"Yeah. Yeah, they mentioned my archery skills on the--the thing, cause I'd won a contest--and so he came. And he adopted me." Roy swiped at his eye a moment. "Turned out, Ray was dying--cancer. He didn't want me to go through that, and uh, there wasn't anyone to take me in the community..."

Bruce knew that feeling--at least, his version. Feeling unwanted--essentially being unwanted by anyone who 'should' take him in. He nodded at Roy, knowing he did not react well to just being hugged or so on--the kid wasn't used to positive strong emotions, either his own or others'.

Dick's face was pretty easy to read--he was thinking about how much better it could have been if Bruce had been there. If he had been the one to take in Roy.

It would have been a bit before Jason, and Bruce wasn't certain that Dick's feeling was correct. He felt like he'd been a horrible dad many times while trying to learn with Dick and then Jason.

Still...at least he wasn't Oliver Queen.

"You know you're always welcome here," Bruce said, in a reassuring but not overbearing tone.

Dick wrapped an arm around Roy's shoulder, even as the teen looked somewhat certain that they would change their minds--despite it having been a few months at that point. Like they would grow tired of him--get rid of him too.

"Yeah, sure," he said, and seemed to be startled when Dick hugged him tightly.

"We care about you, moron," Dick said, "Don't 'yeah, sure' me."

Bruce might've said something about, you know, not calling people who were already down in the dumps names, but it seemed to work. Roy hugged back, just a bit, some of that doubt erased. 

He didn't seem sure enough to reply, not even a half-hearted okay.

And Bruce knew then, of course, that even as proud as he was of Dick, his great empathy and caring, he couldn't take credit. It was Dick's parents who laid the foundation--and Dick's own personality that kept it there.

Dick was a fine young man--and Bruce felt a kind of relief he hadn't known he hadn't had before.

Dick was all right--and the others would be too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a bit of a challenge--cause Roy's origin story is a mess at times. It's not that it isn't fairly clear--it's that it's clearly from its time, like, the 40's, I believe. 
> 
> Roy was indeed adopted around 3 by an 'Indian' named Strong Bow (aka Raymond Begay)--sources are conflicted, but it seems the source material itself says Navajo. Some cite it as Sioux, which is like a fuckton of difference, but eh. I went with Navajo, and did a shit ton of research. (Oh, and in Roy's origin story, his father dies saving Strong Bow--hence the adoption.)
> 
> Nowadays, the chances of non-Navajo child being adopted by a Navajo family on a reservation--like, extremely low. They'd usually have to be related somehow, and even then, yeah.
> 
> It's like this with a lot of Native American nations--the thing is, there's a super long (and horrific) history of taking NA children and adopting them out to families that are not their culture nor able or willing to make them still a part of their culture. In fact, this was a part of an attempted genocide (the definition being wiping a group out as a people/culture).
> 
> Nowadays, there is a strong push to keep NA children with NA families. 
> 
> In the Navajo nation, there are guidelines as such, in order of preferred placement:
> 
> Children's immediate birth family; extended family members; and Clan Relatives;  
> Enrolled Navajo family living within the Navajo Reservation;  
> Enrolled Navajo family living outside the Navajo Reservation;  
> Enrolled member of any federally recognized Tribe living within the Navajo Reservation;  
> Enrolled member of any federally recognized Tribe living outside the Navajo Reservation;  
> Non-Indian family who can provide a suitable home and will maintain the unique values of Navajo culture and able to provide guidance to the child(ren) in maintaining their Navajo cultural identity.
> 
> Anywho. The point being, a non-Navajo child being adopted in would be almost unheard of--interracial marriage is more common.
> 
> But yeah--I kinda wanted to work with his comics origin, and not completely change it. Let me know how you think I did! I have not written a ton about Navajo characters, nor NA characters in general. It was a delicate balance to present the realities of the Navajo people today and Roy's story.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZYOAfqG3z4 --this's the song that kinda inspired me a bit. It was on a Navajo blog--not 100% on how good the translation is, given that I don't speak Navajo, but I quite liked it--and I felt like Roy's reaction is less 'oh my god that is the most beautiful song I have ever heard' and more like a sudden reminder.
> 
> Whew. Long author's note.


	42. Embracing the Sugar Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets to have popsicles for the first time he can recall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A kinda fluffy chapter! :D

"Oh my fucking god," Bruce heard, and he knew it was Jason.

Dick still didn't quite cuss like that, though sometimes Bruce felt like he was starting to pick it up from Jason.

It was a happy exclamation, and Bruce left the computer to go see what was going on. Not that he presumed he _needed_ to be there, but it was always nice to see the boys doing well and being happy. He found them seated on the steps, and Jason's posture spoke of being positively gleeful.

It didn't take long to see why – he had about five of those plastic-tube popsicles in his hands, the frost still evident. One of each flavor, it looked like.

He could see Dick grinning at him, a single purple popsicle in his own hands, as he encouraged, "Yeah, have as many as you want, Little Wing!"

Bruce almost laughed out loud. He'd gotten a bunch of the popsicles (they were very cheap – basically frozen sugar water) at Dick's request, after the boy made a well-planned argument about the heat of summer and how necessary it was to cool off – also, for their emotional well-being, it was important to have treats from time to time, was it not? Cost-wise, as well, the popsicles produced the most bang for their buck compared to almost anything with such a dual purpose.

And it made Bruce smile to realize the whole argument had not completely been on Dick's own behalf.

"Hey, Bruce!" Dick said, with a grin. He tossed him a blue popsicle, the ugly orange and striped cooler sitting next to Dick's knee.

"Hey," Bruce responded, as Jason hastily scooted closer to Dick to make room for him. It was certainly characteristic of late to put himself in between the two of them – he wanted to be next to both of them. Bruce took the spot offered, and smiled at his sons. "So. I can see these popsicles were certainly worth the cost."

He didn't realize he'd said the wrong thing until Jason pulled his popsicles close to his chest, a slight panic in his eyes. "Dick said I could have as many as I wanted--!"

"You can, you can," Bruce quickly reassured, feeling a sting at the way Jason had reacted. "It's okay. I didn't mean anything by that."

Jason flushed, quickly looking down at his popsicles. 

Bruce could have cursed himself. He certainly knew that food in Jason's past had sometimes come with conditions – and rather inconsistent and unstable ones at that. Sometimes, the kid seemed surprised at all he got to eat – especially treats like this.

"Good, cause I'm not giving them back," Jason murmured, almost as if he felt like he had to defend his popsicles, but wasn't sure. Like it was a necessary thing to say.

Bruce didn't say anything – instead, first, he reached over and gently stroked the back of Jason's head. He knew Jason liked that, and was far more receptive to that than any other comforting gesture. "It's all right, Jason. I would never take anything back that I've given you, especially not food."

Jason bit his lip, clearly unsure.

"Jason, it's yours once I give it to you – I don't have the right to take it back. Okay?" Bruce looked at Jason, wanting him to feel better. Wanting him to know that Bruce was not like the previous adults in his life – there weren't conditions for love or other basic needs in this family.

Jason bit off the top of the orange popsicle, and said, "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

There was quiet for a moment, and Dick was a good kid, because he said, as Jason took another huge bite off the popsicle and winced a little at the cold and sugar, "That's it, Jay, embrace the sugar!"

That set Jason laughing, and taking another huge bite, as if to show he could indeed embrace the sugar.

Pretty soon, there was a whole round of joking about embracing sugar, how the sugar life chose them, 'popsicles: two bucks – front porch – probly like 50 bucks – embracing the sugar life – priceless', and so on.

It was a very good feeling. Bruce felt like Jason was finally settling in to normal life, instead of being like someone in a war zone.

They finished up popsicles and laughing by the time it was starting to get a little cooler, late in the evening.

And Bruce couldn't be more grateful for both boys in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked this. It made me happy to write it.


	43. I'm Sorry (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy and Oliver Queen meet up again, for the first time since Oliver kicked him out.
> 
> And Oliver doesn't come alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Suicidal shit in this chapter, do not read if you are triggered by this!

The day they ran into Oliver Queen--Green Arrow--on patrol was a day that Bruce would definitely remember forever.

Queen rarely ventured into their city--he'd already gotten a kind of prickly vibe from Batman, and certainly not since kicking Roy out.

Bruce had a scowl on his face, regardless of the fact that Oliver could see it. "What are you doing in my city?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you owned..." Oliver's voice trailed off as he looked behind him, saw the kid with the bow and arrows, and there was no way to deny it was Roy. Especially with the apprehensive posture, the way he looked like he didn't know whether to run or fight.

Bruce certainly hadn't wanted a reunion sprung on Roy like this--hell, he really hadn't wanted Oliver back in his life at all, in all honesty. If he could somehow make it work that Oliver wouldn't hurt Roy again, he would want that--he knew it was what Roy wanted. To be loved. To be wanted. To erase the rejection.

But Oliver wasn't capable of that.

Bruce cut in again, growling, "What are you doing in my city, Arrow?"

"Roy?" Oliver said it in a way that was hard to decipher. Shock, maybe--not disgust, probably.

He could see the way Roy shifted from foot to foot, debated answering and confirming his identity. The way he just did not know how to react. The way his eyes were squeezed shut behind the protective eyewear.

It was just Bruce, Roy, and Tim on patrol tonight. Bruce wished to god that Dick was here, because Dick would be able to comfort his friend--not that Tim was a bad person, it was just that there wasn't that bond there. Tim was the kind to be dragged down with a depressed friend--Dick was the kind to help buoy them up. At least, that was the place his sons were at for the moment.

"Roy, I know that's you," Oliver said, and again, his tone was not that clear. Not exactly a beacon of, 'My son has come home!' or anything along those lines.

"Funny, cause I know that's you," Roy responded, just a touch of anger in there--but a lot of tiredness too.

Bruce shouldn't have been surprised at the stance Tim took--an 'I'm ready to fight, if we need to' kind of stance. He sometimes forgot just how much Tim had grown--and how deeply he cared about his siblings--legal siblings or not.

Oliver said, "Hey, come on, that's unnecessary. Where've you been?"

He didn't say it the way a concerned parent should. More like it was a 'Huh, where have you been?' kind of thing.

Like it didn't occur to him Roy would have almost nowhere to go when he kicked him out.

"None of your business," Roy responded, voice holding more heat than before.

"You moved in with Batman? Roy, are you crazy? That guy has so many kids he probably has you living in some closet somewhere--plus, you know, it's just a bit _weird_ when a single guy has that many kids, just saying--"

Bruce might've said something, such as the fact he was standing right there, but Roy snapped back,

"Where the fuck else am I supposed to go, Queen? You kicked me out!"

Oliver gave a sigh. "Roy, you know I did that because you're a druggie--not because I hated you."

As if that solved the fact that Roy, his minor child, had _nowhere to go_. 

Bruce could feel that fire rising in his chest--he'd seen far too many homeless kids out on the streets for similar reasons. And when he could see Roy clench his hands in his hood, his own costume a similar one to the Bats' now, he said, in a chilling tone, "Arrow. Do you understand how addictions to heroin even start?"

"So he's still addicted?" Oliver responded, shaking his head with apparent disappointment. He sighed. "I guess we'll just have to wait it out. You get your head on straight, Roy, and then--"

He was cut off by Bruce slamming him against the wall. Bruce wasn't sure what he wanted to say, though he knew he wanted to tear the bastard apart, having seen the way Roy's despondent posture increased. "You are a fucking idiot. Addiction _can't_ be cured--but he is recovering, and he hasn't touched the drug in months."

"Hey! Get your hands off, you--!"

"I'm not finished, Queen. Even if he _had_ taken drugs recently, he would be welcome at my goddamn house. He wants to get better. Do you know why he got addicted in the first place?" Bruce just wanted to grab Oliver's goddamn windpipe and squeeze.

"I don't know--he's a druggie, and--"

"Heroin causes euphoria. Let me translate. It makes you feel happy. You know who doesn't get an addiction to heroin? People who are already happy." Bruce clenched tighter on his grip on the front of Oliver's expensive costume, a thick fabric that was beyond the Bats' ability to buy. Oliver's hands were on his wrists.

"Well, that's not my fault, he shouldn't have used the drug in the first place!" Oliver sounded incredulous that there was any implication this was somehow his responsibility.

Bruce was going to say more. He was going to tell Oliver that he was a horrible father, that it was only his goddamn money that had made them think him an appropriate place to home a surly, hurt ten year old, when he heard, in a feminine voice,

"Back away from the old man."

"Hey!" Tim shouted this, and Bruce had heard two people appear, jumping down from a vantage point, it seemed--he could also hear the sound of three bows being nocked, and Tim's staff swiping through the air into an attack stance.

Oliver had the slightest smirk on his face, at Bruce. "You're not the only one with sidekicks."

He could have said, 'I should be,' disregarding that he hardly considered his team 'sidekicks.' But instead, he slowly let Oliver go, turning around with hands raised.

A girl, in the red and gold of Speedy, and a boy, in red and black, stood there, arrows pointed at him and Tim.

Not at Roy. His hands were clearly too shaky to aim correctly, and arrows were a hard aim as it was.

The girl tossed blonde hair, and said, "Step away from Green Arrow."

"Speedy! Red Arrow! Good to see you!" Oliver said cheerfully.

The way Roy started at Speedy was almost enough to send Bruce back to attacking Green Arrow. He could see the devastation in Roy's posture, even if he couldn't see his face.

The boy in red and black had dark skin, darker than pretty much anyone present, but had a shock of blond hair. Bruce was pretty certain that was hair dye. The boy didn't say a word, nodding at Green Arrow with a tight look to his mouth.

The look Tim sent Bruce was, 'Do we fight?'

He looked like he wanted to.

And in all honesty, Bruce wanted to as well. But he could not. That was a bad plan--not just for them, either. For Roy. To attack his father--legal father, at least--was not something that would help him. It would only make it certain that he would not get to come back, and that was probably more than Roy could handle right now.

"We're leaving. Get out of my goddamn city in the hour," Bruce said flatly, backing towards his boys.

"Roy," Oliver said, evidently ignoring Bruce, "You can come home anytime--if you shape up."

"Fuck you," Roy murmured.

"Excuse me?" Oliver said, cocking his head to the side.

"You goddamn heard me. Go fuck yourself with a rusty stop sign," Roy said, voice seeming to tremble as he said it, but getting gradually angrier. 

"Whoa, buddy, what's wrong?" Oliver said, like he didn't have a goddamn clue. 

"Don't you fucking 'buddy' me! You threw me out--with nothing, not even goddamn shoes! I only had enough money to catch a bus, you understand that?! It didn't even go where I needed--I had to walk the rest of the goddamn way!" Roy was shouting now, pain and fury coming out in a wave of energy Bruce hadn't seen in a while.

"You shouldn't have done drugs--I just wanted you to understand that you can't do drugs. That's a condition for living under my roof--" Oliver said, almost as if he'd spent time coming up with those reasons. As if he'd needed to justify himself afterwards.

"I fucking needed you and you punched me and threw me out!" Roy screamed at him, and the anguish in those words was painful to hear--Bruce could see the way that Tim sort of cringed.

"Shouldn't have done drugs," Oliver managed again, looking rather like he wanted to escape.

"And you fucking replaced me--you gave that blonde bitch my goddamn name, you picked up some kid with a bad dye job--"

"Connor is my _son_ , Roy," Oliver corrected, because that was the easy thing to address. "And Mia needed me."

Mia was giving a look like she might fight Roy. Like his very existence threatened hers. Chin stuck up a bit.

And Bruce snarled, "Get the fuck out of my city!"

Because Roy looked like he wanted to die on the spot. Because Oliver was being as cruel as he could possibly be. And because Bruce wasn't sure if he could hold back if Oliver stayed.

Oliver looked irritated, huffing. "Well. We have what we need--and even with what you said, Roy, you are welcome home once you straighten up. Come on, Mia, Connor."

Bruce thought he saw an evidence bag thumping against Mia's hip as she left--as Green Arrow and his cohort left, probably not aware of the danger they were in.

He'd turned back to Roy--only to see the boy run. "Red!"

Roy went by Red Hawk now--a half-hearted attempt at coming up with a superhero identity for the time he was with the Bats.

And now he was disappearing into the city.

Tim and Bruce raced after him, but he was gone--and Bruce's heart thumped in his chest, icy cold sweat on his body. "Call everyone. Now. We need to find him."

Tim did just that, a tremble in his voice despite the semi-businesslike announcement into everyone's linked walkie talkies, 'Attention--Urgent. Red Hawk is AWOL. Location must be determined immediately--whatever you're doing, drop it. All units on the street pronto.'

Bruce focused, could hear the affirmatives pouring in--Cass, Bette, Steph, Dick, Barbara... he could hear Tim rattle out more details as they were asked for--general location, condition, so on and so forth.

He was proud of their ability to remain businesslike. To focus on the mission and not cussing out Oliver or worrying out loud over Roy.

They could do that when he was found.

If he was found.

He would be, Bruce reassured himself. He would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one--part two to be posted in mere moments. I would not leave y'all hanging on a chapter like this that way. It was just too much for a single chapter.


	44. I'm Sorry (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences of seeing Green Arrow again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Suicidal stuff again. Much stronger than the last chapter. Do not read if you get triggered, please.

Roy was good at hiding, even in his state--at least, that was what Bruce was hoping. That he was just hiding, and that was why he was not responding on his talkie.

"Red Hawk, this is Nightwing, respond, I repeat, respond," Bruce heard again, Dick's voice crackling over the talkie's wavelength.

He didn't think Roy would. Roy barely knew how to ask for help--and barely knew how to accept it. 

He could see Tim's tight posture next to him, not a sound escaping him. That was Tim. He had a hard time expressing himself, and had very much decided now was not the time.

It was like time had slowed. It was like they were crawling through ooze. Bruce felt like they just could not move fast enough. Because he had seen the way Roy felt, and that was abject despair.

And abject despair was a dangerous thing for a person to have.

He wanted to kill Oliver. But more importantly, he wanted Roy to be okay.

To be alive.

"Go home." 

The words crackling over the talkie wavelength sent a spike of fear through Bruce's chest. The words were heavy, just absolutely dead--and it was Roy.

Dick spoke before anyone else could. "Red Hawk, please, just tell us where you are--"

"Just go home."

"You come home too, Red Hawk. Please."

Dick's voice was full of emotion--Roy's barely was.

"It's not my home. It's okay."

"It is not okay, Roy," Bruce said sharply, breaking protocol--because Roy needed to hear his real name. Codenames made for distance, and goddamnit, that was the last thing Roy needed right now. "It's not okay. We want you to be safe--and we want you to be home with us."

"No, it's okay. It was--this's just how things were supposed to end up. I'm sorry."

"Where are you?!" he could hear Bette shout into the talkie. "Don't you fucking say sorry--tell me where the hell you are!"

"I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry. I just...I can't. I can't." 

Bruce could hear Roy's voice break, and his heart clenched, pain and ice cold fear. "Roy, tell me where you are. You can do this. You can make it--you've made it so far, haven't you?"

"I can't. I'm really, really sorry. I just can't do this anymore. Tell Ollie he wins, okay? He wins. He can be so goddamn proud. I won't be a druggie anymore."

It was clear Roy was crying, voice hoarse from already crying. It was clear he felt utterly broken.

"Spotted and nabbed," Steph's voice suddenly came over the talkie, and Bruce thought he could make out Roy's voice in the background, and he didn't think he could ever feel more relieved, like his heart had just melted from hard-ice-fear to soft. "The South Bridge."

They made it there in record time.

They could see Steph had wrapped Roy in an emergency blanket, and was holding him tightly, murmuring to him. His face was buried in her shoulder, and he didn't turn to look up at them.

Bruce sank down next to Roy, feelings battling--rage, hurt, sorrow--and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, saying, "It's okay, Roy. It's okay. You will be okay."

Dick had quickly joined, letting out a choked sob. "You fucking scared the shit out of me! Don't ever fucking do that again!" 

Tim and Cass hovered, as Bette arrived, and latched on to Cass's arm.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry--" was what Roy was saying, and Bruce didn't know how to respond, entirely.

He hushed him, saying, "Just try to get better. That's all I ask. Don't do this again, but _tell me_ if you feel like this." His throat was hurting. His eyes burned. "You're not alone. You don't need to be."

They got Roy back. He promised not to do it again, even as there seemed to be no real hope in his eyes. They got him on the couch, put on movies that might be soothing (the first being the Blustery Day episode of Winnie the Pooh), and they all tried so hard to help--Bette tried to feed him tapioca pudding that she'd made earlier that day, Cass kept smoothing back his hair, Tim brought him as many comforters as he could, and Dick kept trying to make jokes and not cry.

Bruce sat on the couch with him--not closer than Roy was comfortable with, but there was no way in hell he was leaving him alone. He quelled the hateful feelings in his chest--the thought that if he could only be the one to take Roy in permanently, he could help so much more. If only Oliver weren't an asshole who thought he was using 'Tough Love' to cure Roy, when in reality he was taking the easiest route he could.

Roy needed people right now. People who cared.

And so they sat up with him--Steph offering colorful commentary on the Winnie the Pooh movies they went through, Tim chiming in every so often, head leaning on her shoulder, Bette making snacks and eventually apparently hitting the right combo of tastes because she finally got Roy to eat, and Dick holding tightly to Roy's hand. A constant reminder that he was not alone.

Cass was watching. Like she would jump in if something horrible happened, but could see that barging in was not needed right now. She had a sad look in her eyes.

They made it the night, and the next couple days. There was no instant improvement, and it was a stressful time--but they made it. And Roy made it.

Bruce didn't even want to think what could have happened had he left without them knowing--or if he'd felt this way under Oliver's 'watch.'

It was too easy to lose people.

And Roy would not be one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. I wanted to die today, so I made these chapters instead. I'm still working on standing up again, and I am struggling, but I'm going to be okay. I have people who care about me--who aren't my goddamn family--and I'm going to be okay. I am just deflated and feel very defeated right now.
> 
> I hope this didn't upset anyone. I did my best. It was hard to imagine the reaction of the batfam--cause my family didn't react quite that way when I attempted five years ago. :I
> 
> Hope y'all are having a better time than me.


	45. Better than Taco Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette cooks. Tim doubts her ability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy chappy! :D

"What? Seriously, this is for dinner? You guys total cavemen or what?" Bette apparently did not approve of mac'n'cheese. Tim frowned at her, putting down the cheese-covered spoon.

His look said, 'I made this, thank you, and I worked hard.'

Bruce smothered a smile at the look. "Yes, this is what's for dinner tonight. Is there an issue?"

He didn't say it in a hostile way. Bette had been with them a couple months, and in all honesty, he was surprised she hadn't said something sooner. But they hadn't had mac'n'cheese in a while, he supposed--and that must have been the final straw for her.

She ran a hand through her hair, sighing, "Oh god, you people are Philistines or some shit...Lemme. Move, Timbo."

"Philistines is in reference to art--" Tim started, but Bette rolled her eyes.

"God, Tim, I mean culinary Philistines--food's an art too!" He'd moved out of the way, shooting a look at Bruce like, 'What the hell? What does she think she's doing?'

But it was the most positive action that Bruce had seen her take so far, and so he just gave Tim a nod to signal that it was okay.

Bette tasted the mac'n'cheese, made a face. "Kay, like, you gotta balance out the sodium in here--plus, you got tomatoes, right? I saw you were growing some--Tim, grab me a couple, kay?"

Cass handed them while Tim sulked at being told what to do by Bette.

Bette cut them up rather quickly, dicing in almost perfect squares. Bruce watched with a solidly good feeling in his chest as she added spices and tomatoes and all sorts of things to the mac'n'cheese.

Tim was making a face. Bruce rubbed his shoulder, smiling at him. "It's okay. I think she knows what she's doing."

"Uh, yeah, I do," Bette responded, stirring the speckled and filled with chunks of food mess. Well, mess wasn't the right word--it was starting to shape up. Look rather nice, actually. Kind of like some sort of fancy macaroni and cheese.

She actually sprinkled some shredded cheese on it, as Tim started to voice the complaint that he'd shredded that cheese for egg sandwiches tomorrow--and Cass wrapped her arms around him, reassuring without a word. It was all right--they would have enough cheese, and everyone knew the contributions he'd made.

"Voila!" Bette said, flicking her hair back over her shoulder.

It was served up at dinner, Tim eyeing it distrustfully.

Cass ate it with gusto--she ate just about everything with gusto. She enjoyed having food--and decent food at that, Bruce knew. _Hot_ food, even after all this time.

Bette was chattering a mile a minute. "Like, you just gotta go beyond salt and pepper--that's like, totally basic. Sides, salt's like, anathema to this dish--it's got so much sodium already, you know?"

"That's not what anathema means," Tim complained.

"Colloquially, yeah, it does. Words shift meaning and shit, Timbo," Bette said, and she gave him a grin/smirk. "Try the food! You'll like it."

Tim scowled, and shoved a forkful in his mouth, though not before muttering something about, 'Smartmouth know-it-all...'

Then his eyes widened. "How...what...?"

Bruce tried a bite. It was undeniably a step up from typical box mac'n'cheese. He wasn't entirely sure how Bette had done it. It wasn't what you'd describe as gourmet--no, it wasn't a miracle. But it tasted more like a properly done pasta dish. More like the more expensive mixes you got that suggested putting in chicken or ground beef, but with a touch more freshness--fresh tomatoes tend to do that.

Bette had a look on her face like, 'Yes, I am the queen, thank you.'

Tim finally admitted, "Roy and Dick sure picked a night to go get Taco Bell and study."

That made Bruce laugh. Roy was often Dick's study partner--very good at keeping him on topic. And Dick often treated him to cheap fast food.

"We'll have to save them some," he said.

But that was certainly not the end of Bette's uniquely made dishes. She had many great dishes (and a few major flops), but it turned out cooking made her quite happy--along with martial arts and sports, among other things.

Bruce had felt like he was making progress with his cousin--and now he was pretty certain he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like, three of my sibs when it comes to cooking. Mum didn't teach us a lot, so they're all three fairly self taught--and have amazing senses of flavor, y'know? I mean, I started my bro off, since I'm like five years older, but now he has surpassed me, lol. That kid's fish is to die for. Among just about anything he makes *not* following my Mom's instructions. XD
> 
> Same with my twin, who can't eat most of the stuff she makes, so she always has willing taste-testers and can coach them through what details she needs to know about the taste.
> 
> And my sis...god. That girl. 'I'm just going to spice this chili up.' '...this is so good but I think my mouth is going to die, sis.' XD
> 
> I thought Bette might be good at that. A good follow-through on the promise to make smoothies and stuff, I suppose. :)
> 
> Tim and Bette's slight friction is natural--she's a lot more feelsy-oriented than he is, and it makes him uncomfortable, even when it has absolutely nothing to do with sexual stuff. And naturally, Bette is older than Tim so she assumes she should be able to tell him what to do. Also, she is taller at this point. Which is always great. :)
> 
> Also, I am back to stable. I have a good support system and coping methods now--and thank you so much for all y'all who commented with support. It meant so much. I used to be hospitalized when I felt that bad--now, I can pull through it. Progress. :)


	46. The Circus Life Chose Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick and Jay doing handstands! Or trying, in Jason's case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fluff chapter. :) Very short, lol.

"Kay, kay, you just gotta not think about so much. Like this."

Dick was easily standing upside down on his hands, making it look extremely easy to do. He looked positively relaxed doing it, as Bruce sat on the couch and leafed through a handbook on how to care for with children with HIV. He'd read it the instant he got it, of course, but he wanted to be sure he knew it all.

Jason was watching, a determined scowl on his face. He'd already fallen over several times, one time his heel just bouncing off the floor. Bruce knew Jason had a very high pain tolerance, and was keeping a general eye, but he definitely trusted Dick to take care if Jason should get hurt.

He watched as Jason pitched forward on his hands, kicking up into a handstand--for all of about a millisecond, before he came thudding against the practice mat again.

Dick was patient, saying, "Okay, you have decent balance--we know that. So, uh..." He seemed a little lost. He hadn't exactly taught someone how to do acrobatics before, Bruce was pretty sure.

"Perhaps start with a headstand?" Bruce suggested, seeing the somewhat lost look on his elder son's face.

Sometimes, when you were really good at something, had gotten good at it so long ago you barely remembered, it was hard to teach it. To start from the basics.

Bruce felt like he'd focused on being able to teach all along, so it was very different compared to Dick.

Dick brightened, saying, "Okay, you might get a headache, but once you do it a ton, you'll be used to it!" and promptly turned into a headstand.

Jason stared at him, and mimicked his action--this time, staying up almost a solid second.

He rose up, frustration on his face, when Bruce looked at him, and nodded, making a slight smile at him. A 'good job' kind of look. That made Jason seem to shrug off the frustration, a slight embarrassed but pleased look on his face.

Dick crowed excitedly, "You're going to get it in no time, Jay! You almost got it now, that was great!"

"It was?" Jason asked incredulously.

"Yeah, do it again!"

And Jason turned up onto his head once more, arms braced on either side.

It turned out, once Jason understood the general mechanics of how and why the things like headstands and flips worked, and once he got a better sense of balance, he was able to pull them off pretty easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just remembered learning how to do that as a child. Very fun--I always loved that kind of thing.


	47. At Home in Stockholm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janet visits again--and has different tactics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Manipulative, chaotic kinda parenting in this chapter. Not so fluffy at all.

Tim was clearly just a touch startled that his mom showed up a good ten minutes early to their meeting. He shifted a bit in his seat, playing with the edges of his sweatshirt (a Gotham U one that Dick had picked up at a come-and-see thing).

Janet Drake crossed the room and immediately sat down next to her son, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

It was a bit strange--much like she was copying what she'd seen in a movie, at least to Bruce. 

"Oh, honey, I'm so glad you're doing well--I'm glad the bad people are finally understanding that we're not hurting you. You should be home so soon--I'm so glad. I just wanted to take away this pain, so you wouldn't have to deal with this."

It sounded strangely like a mishmash of movie lines.

Tim looked dazed, but in an almost happy away--his cheek rested against his mother's shoulder, and when he wasn't stopped, he cuddled closer.

She held her arm tight around him, saying, "There's my favorite Timothy. Are you eating, sweetie?"

"Yeah," Tim breathed out, seeming nervous--as if being too loud would break the spell.

It was almost painful--the way he seemed desperate to make the affection go on, the way he was clearly starved for it from his mother. His arms were bunched up against his body, and Bruce was vaguely reminded of a baby.

"Good, honey. I know what you said in the latest psych evaluation--good job, honey. Good job not letting them trick you."

Tim's eyes flashed in confusion. "What...what'd I say?"

Obviously, he knew in general what he'd said--Bruce knew that. But he was unclear on what would make his mother happy that he'd said.

Janet smiled down at him approvingly. "You told them that you weren't abused. You told them that we feed you, clothe you, and care for all your needs. And that you brought the...small matter on your own head, and you made it out to be bigger than it was. I'm glad you're being honest, Timothy."

Tim looked confused, and his eyes flashed to Bruce, like, 'Did I say that? I don't remember that.'

But of course, Bruce was hardly privy to his counseling sessions or psych evaluations. His best guess? Janet was misreading official documents.

"Mrs. Drake," Ms. Walker said firmly, "There is to be no coaching or rewarding for things that are private like that--you don't know about his psych evaluation other than the fact they found him mentally competent."

"That's not what our lawyer says--he says this should be wrapped up long before Easter," Janet said haughtily, "He said Tim has been cleared to stand trial, and after that, all our worries will be over. Because he'll tell them the truth--right, Timothy?"

That look was on Tim's face again--the one that said, 'What _is_ the truth?'

Ms. Walker seemed reluctant to cut in, but said, "Mrs. Drake, there is to be no talk about the upcoming trial. It's a custody decision, and Tim is not to be influenced. If you continue trying to influence him, you will be barred from seeing him."

Janet huffed. "I'm not allowed to talk to my own child anymore? Please. I have never hurt Tim."

Apparently, the occasional spanking with a hairbrush didn't count as 'hurt' in Janet's world--nor the occasional slap across the face that Tim had related to Bruce. 

He'd mumbled, said it barely happened ever, and it wasn't a big deal--adults got mad, if you weren't careful. That's why you had to be careful. That's why you had to plan and strategize.

And that was certainly why Tim rarely, if ever, let his guard down.

"You are denied certain topics, Mrs. Drake. Please stick with the conditions we set," Ms. Walker said.

Janet sighed, and stood, looking at Tim as if to say, 'Sorry, look what they've made me do.'

The alarm that flashed through Tim's face, the _no, no, please stay, I want to be held,_ was evident, and made Bruce's stomach clench--the way she callously stood, Tim catching himself before he could hit the couch, a devastated look quickly being smothered on his face.

"Mom..." he started, obviously about to ask her to stay, but the request seemed to be choked off, withering away.

Janet sat on the recliner again, and said, a casual business tone, "So. Timothy. Tell me, have you been completing your math homework now?"

Tim nodded, almost eagerly. "Yes! I mean, yes, Mom. I got a perfect score on the last test--it helped raise my grade--it's a mid-level A now, because I also did extra credit to raise it--"

And had nearly killed himself doing it, Bruce felt, still remembering the rather scary almost blackout, the way Tim had toppled over at dinner from the stress and lack of sleep while still recovering from a bad head injury. Yes, it had been a bit, but something like that didn't just go away after a week or two or even a month or so of recuperation--especially not with how stressed Tim generally was.

"And I've been working very hard at my science projects, plus I did extra credit for, uh, social studies--" The way he was listing off accomplishments, the way he was trying to prove how hard he'd been working, just made Bruce hate Janet all the more.

Because Tim was trying to prove he deserved affection. It was a desperate plea for something he should barely have to ask for. And this was clearly something that had been instilled in him from a young age.

"I see. What else have you been up to?" Janet was half-distracted, even if she wasn't doing anything else. She had the 'see, I'm politely listening, audience' look on her face.

It continued on in a painful fashion--Tim trying to prove that he'd done well, that he was _good_ \--and Janet responding like one responded to a relative stranger talking to you in line at the grocery store who happened to be looking for the same coupon as you, or an acquaintance at church you hadn't seen in a while who walked up to say hi after the service.

Finally she stood, tapping her phone. "Time to go. See you next time, Tim."

Tim looked utterly crushed. He stood as well, tentatively rocking on his heels--unwilling to risk making a move towards a hug, but clearly desperately hoping she would.

She didn't. She nodded at him, and headed on out the door.

Tim stood there, looking about as alive as a scarecrow.

Ms. Walker gave him a sympathetic look, and looked over to Bruce--they locked eyes. He could see the 'I've seen this too many times--please, do what you can' look in her eyes.

And then she left too, after giving Bruce what he needed to keep Tim's care on track.

Tim positively crumpled into the couch, curling into the corner. Bruce settled next to him quietly, and said, "Are you all right?"

Tim sniffled, and said, in a watery, very quiet voice, "No."

Bruce reached over carefully, settling a hand on the shoulder not buried into the couch.

This seemed to turn a switch in Tim, and he let out a small sob, and said, tone with the slightest hint of a whimper to it, "I wanna go home. I wanna go home--I want my mom."

Bruce knew that pain, to an extent, even if it was hard to comprehend how anyone could truly want to be around Janet--but then, she was Tim's mother. He didn't know any better. Bruce gently rubbed up and down Tim's upper arm.

He couldn't promise he'd go home. "It's not safe for you there right now. When your parents get help, maybe--but even if they don't, you will always have a place here. I promise you that."

Tim cried very quietly, like someone who had a lot of practice not making loud noises no matter how great the distress.

Bruce's heart hurt--he wanted to take away the pain, but he had no way to do it. He couldn't force Tim's parents to love him--he couldn't force Tim not to care about his parents. He opened his arms a bit, the most he could do in this situation--a clear, but not demanding, offer for a hug.

Tim hesitated a moment, as if not certain if this was a trick--but then he pressed in, a touch awkwardly, like he wanted hugs but he wasn't used to them.

"I-I should just say it didn't happen," he murmured, "I don't even know anymore...maybe it didn't. Maybe not the way I think..."

"It did, Tim. You remember it right, I promise," Bruce said, resisting the urge to hold Tim much tighter. A protective urge--a feeling that Tim needed to be safe and stable, for probably the first time in his life. "She may not believe it, but it did. Neighbors heard it--and the injuries you got are evidence enough. Even if he somehow didn't intend to truly hurt you--he did. And that is unacceptable." 

Tim's arms were pinned between them, a thing Tim often did. His head rested against Bruce, as he started to hiccup--a sound he could not hide. "But I want to go home..."

"I know." Bruce didn't rebut that home was a horrible place to be. That Tim needed to get out, that the only reason he wanted to stay was because he didn't know better, because home was familiar.

For now, he just held Tim until he cried out--because the boy didn't say anything more.

And he would help Tim not work himself near to death the next day--but that was another day altogether.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a common tactic of chaotic kinda parents--usually narcissists. Affection is used to disorient/randomly reward a child. And Janet is definitely one of those.
> 
> I know this pain. Not fun at all.


	48. Hoodwinked (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The appearance of the Red Hood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Jaybird's back! Not so yay for Timmers, though... :(

Bruce hadn't seen Ra's in a while. The man had made a slight, snide comment through a note that if he wanted his boy back so bad, he could use the Lazarus pit. At least, Bruce took it as snide. What else was he supposed to take it as? Ra's had no reason to help him.

Bette was on patrol this time, with Tim. The two were getting along much better now, even quipping to each other as they worked.

"Hey, Baby Bird, you take 'Beer for Breakfast' and I'll take 'Too Late for Braces', kay?"

"Kay, Hot Wings."

They'd been just enough distance apart that they needed to use the radio system, rather than shouting down the alley, and it made Bruce smile to himself.

Both had grown a lot--Tim was fifteen now, had been for a couple months, and Bette was nearing her eighteenth birthday--a day she declared as 'Legal Voter Day' while adding that she could stop voting as Elmer Fudd now.

She went by Flamebird. Tim went by Robin.

And Bruce knew there was trouble if he ever heard them refer to each other by these names.

"Fuck, Robin, come in!"

Bette's voice was urgent, and Bruce immediately left the perch he'd had (he'd been waiting for a drug dealer to show up--one they'd been trying to peg for a while now) and was already breaking into a cold sweat.

"Robin, come in, goddamnit!"

No response. None.

Until the slightest, "Fla--" and it was cut off by static.

Bruce knew roughly where the two were--he hardly let any of them patrol without knowing where they were. "All units to Third Street!" he barked into the radio.

"Roger that!" came several exclamations--Red Hawk, Nightwing, Black Bat, Spoiler--and Bruce raced to Third Street.

"Flamebird, fill us in!" Bruce said, voice sharp and urgent.

Bette's voice filled their airwaves. "Robin's just--he was there a minute ago, he is fucking gone! Someone snatched him! I'm pursuing, but fuck, this guy's good!"

Bruce's mind immediately went to the League of Assassins. Ra's had mentioned more than once that Tim would make an amazing protege, that his mind was sharper than any of the others'--true, it had only been in meeting him or his followers once or twice, but it had still frightened Bruce--he hadn't let Tim go alone out of this fear.

Turned out, such fear was not irrational.

"Nightwing, you're closest--catch up to Flamebird, now!" Bruce commanded.

"Roger!"

Because he couldn't lose Bette too--she was a natural when it came to martial arts, she was strong--but she was certainly not League of Assassins strong.

And Dick was. And he would do anything to protect his siblings.

Which made Bruce run faster, cursing his placement--one of the further away members of their team.

"Robin sighted! And--mysterious figure sighted!" Flamebird said into the radio, and Bruce's heart thumped painfully in his chest.

"Do not engage," he finally, painfully decided, because Flamebird alone--she should not. As much as he wanted Tim safe, he could not risk her being killed.

"What the fuck?! I'm engaging!" Bette snapped, and there was no doubt she was.

"Nightwing!" Bruce shouted into the radio, control of the situation seeming to slip further from his fingers.

"Almost there, B!" Nightwing responded, "Flamebird, don't engage!"

No response from Bette.

"Nightwing, visuals--"

"Not there yet, B!" Dick responded almost frantically.

Seconds were more than enough for a fight to end in a fatal fashion. Fights in general rarely lasted more than thirty seconds.

Bruce was covered in cold sweat, his body was moving like it was superhuman, like a machine pushed to overdrive. He had to be there. He couldn't lose his kids _again_ \--either of them.

Suddenly, there was a voice over the radio--not one of his.

"Nice bird, Batman. Both of them, really. I could use some new wings--you think they'll fit?"

It was a strangely familiar voice, but too distorted to tell. 

"You leave them the fuck alone!" he could hear Stephanie shout over the radio. Her voice was frantic, pained. Like his was--only his was trapped in his chest.

"You picked up more brats--impressive. How many you got? You running an orphanage? I mean, a two for one is nice, but I bet I could cut a better deal."

So familiar, but Bruce couldn't put his finger on it. "Stop. Leave my kids out of this, whoever you are."

"No one does that, Batman. No one leaves the kids out of it, do they? So, yeah. Howsabout these two can be my sidekicks? I can call them Dead Bird and Bimbo Bird--sounds fitting, right?"

"Who are you?" Bruce demanded, too far away, too goddamn far away--

"Red Hood. I'm the savior of this city--the one you could never be. Oops, looks like Chicken Man is on his way--bye. This isn't the last you've heard of me."

"Nightwing!"

Gone. They were gone, Bruce knew it--and Nightwing's cussing in his radio confirmed it. "Any info on which way the fucking bastard went?! Do we know anything?!"

"Look for clues," Cass said, over the radio--her voice was much calmer, but still held an undercurrent of rage.

It had barely taken a few minutes for the whole episode to go down--but by the time the rest of the team got there, Bette and Tim were long gone.

And no trace left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will probably post the next part this evening or earlier. I will not leave y'all in too much suspense!


	49. Hoodwinked (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's return complicates family matters--and Bruce is at a loss on how to help all his children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da!

It was Jason all over again--the nausea in Bruce's stomach made even the thought of eating or drinking impossible. All that mattered was getting his kids back.

This had to be terrifying for both of them. And if the mysterious man had intentions of breaking them in as his own sidekicks...

Bruce thought he might throw up.

But he couldn't. He had to focus. Nothing was more important right now than finding and saving his kids.

"Security cams caught Flamebird," Barbara was saying, "Her symbol kind of stands out more than Robin's. It was a half an hour ago--Johnson Street. The dude went into a warehouse--address 444."

They had a location. Bruce didn't even think to thank Barbara, though he could hear Dick murmur his thanks to her as they raced out to the Batmobile--an upgrade from the old one, but still a van. Reinforced against bullets on the inside.

Dick was already in the driver's seat, and he knew his son would get them there very fast--in a rather harrowing manner, but that didn't matter. He was already in the passenger seat, clicking his seatbelt, as Dick turned the key in the ignition.

Cass, Steph, and Roy strapped in in the back.

Dick roared out of the 'Batcave' and took off down the street.

The drive was a good ten minutes, and that was more than enough time for an eternity of agonizing. Who was this man? Why in god's name did he want Tim and Bette? Bruce got the feeling Tim was the main target, but why? He didn't _seem_ to be associated with the League of Assassins--they didn't typically use names like 'Red Hood.' Research, on Steph's part on her purple little laptop, didn't reveal anything about a person going by Red Hood.

His skin was cold with sweat. His heart was thumping in his chest, feeling like it was being squeezed, and he prayed to a god who he didn't believe in (who had never helped before, not even when he begged) to protect his kids, to let them be alive.

_Please. I can't do this again. I can't lose them._

The van came to a squealing stop. Dick didn't pay any attention to the 'No Parking' sign--the police didn't give a fuck here. This was a dirty part of town, a relatively abandoned part.

The Red Hood knew this area.

Bruce realized, with a start, that this was where he'd found Jason. New feelings sought to drown him, to remind him of finding his son as a tiny child here--and then finding him as a bloody child, cut from life far too soon.

It turned to rage. This fucker had chosen the wrong place--he was going down.

"All entrances. Black Bat, you're on the South--Spoiler, Red Hawk--North. Nightwing, West. I have the East."

They went to their respective entrances, radios turned on, nerves running high. Not for their own safety--for their siblings'. For his children's.

He entered the East--and was greeted with a sight that made his blood boil.

Tim was on the floor, small, curled up as blood sluggishly oozed from his head--naked. Beaten clearly within an inch of his life--but his chest rose and fell, and his eyes flickered to Bruce's direction in a hazy way.

The costume was a bit away--ripped to shreds.

Bruce was quick to look for Bette--and her costume, just a touch brighter than most of the others', caught his eye. She was inside it, at the very least--and sporting a swollen eye, gagged and bound to a beam.

She looked like she'd taken a beating, but it wasn't as obvious as with Tim.

And there was the Red Hood. He had a red helmet on, that was too matte to glint in the light, and his clothes were thick, black, and fairly form-concealing--though he was taller than Dick, Bruce realized. Not quite as tall as Bruce himself was, just barely.

He stepped towards Tim, running a crowbar along his spine, making Tim screw his eyes shut, and Bette let out an outraged, muffled cry. A clear rebuke. _You touch him, you go through me._

It appeared he already had.

"Looks like Daddy Bats is here, Timmers. Lucky you! He came for you, huh?" The voice was distorted by the mask.

No use in hiding. Bruce came out of the shadows, fighting to keep the pure rage out of his posture. "What do you want?"

He could see Bette's eye on him--the look said she'd noticed him already, like all his children would. It also said she trusted him to get them out.

Red Hood sounded almost like he was grinning--it was impossible to tell. "What do I want? Hm. Hard question to answer--I want a lot of things. Right this moment? Maybe it's to end this piece of shit--maybe it's to shoot you. Not sure, not sure."

Bruce found himself saying, "If you want to hurt someone, hurt me. Not them. They have nothing to do with your agenda."

Red Hood did laugh this time. "And you know that...how, exactly? Bette Boop over there seems to think I want to stop you guys from fighting crime--like I'm some gangster, right?" He sort of gestured in Bette's direction.

Bruce deduced that he knew all their names, and that was pretty bad. That was a horrific development, in fact. "Fine. Then tell me why you're attacking my team."

He tried to keep the tension, the fear, out of his voice.

He knew the others were in the wings--waiting for a signal. For what to do.

There was something so... _familiar_ about Red Hood. It crossed Bruce's mind that they'd fought him under another name, but they didn't often cross paths with martial artists of their general skill level.

And Red Hood was good if he'd taken down both Bette and Tim at once--multiple opponents were a challenge, and Tim was quite good, and Bette had that kind of intuition in a fight that made her more formidable than people would think she would be.

Red Hood tilted his head. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Should I?" Bruce asked, and he regretted it in an instant.

Because Red Hood took off the hood--and the clues he'd been ignoring, the subconscious ones piling up, were confirmed.

Jason stood there. His son. Who he'd seen dead. Who he'd buried--who he visited every year, the anniversary of his death (a week before his adoption day) in about three days. He had bought the red carnations that Jason liked back when they grew them for school. He had tied them in a purple ribbon. He had packed the small cloth to clean the photo frame in front of the grave and the small stone itself--a flat one, all they could afford at the time. A flat one inscribed with a tiny gap of fifteen years alive on this Earth.

And Jason was taller than he'd been, more muscular. He cockily tossed the helmet towards Bruce, saying, "Hey. Long time no see."

The helmet skittered across the floor.

There was...Bruce was trying to think coherently, think beyond _fight him_ and _he can't be real_ and _gather him up in my arms_. A raging battle inside of him left him paralyzed. "... _Jason?_ "

The name was heavy, dropping from his mouth with so much pain that Jason seemed to flinch back, cocky look disappearing.

Jason looked just a bit confused at that. He seemed to refocus, saying, "No, yeah, it's me. Fuck you, kay? Just...shut up."

There was a green glow to his eyes that hadn't been there before--he'd had a soft green before that night, the last time Bruce saw him--he would never forget his son's eyes. These were not as they were supposed to be.

Jason shook his head, obviously reading the look in Bruce's eyes. "Hey. Stop that. I'm not here for--goddamnit!" He kicked Tim, making the boy let out the smallest pained whimper that Tim probably could--just loud enough to be picked up on.

"Hey! Do not touch him!" Bruce said sharply.

This seemed to set Jason back on angry. "Ha, yeah, wouldn't want to scuff up the _Replacement_ , huh? He's shiny and brand new! New model, _better_ model, am I right? Cept, I don't think this one takes a beating as well. Kinda weak, in my professional opinion."

Bruce's heart went chilly--a frenetic pitter-patter there. "Jason, you were not replaced--"

"He's wearing my goddamn costume, isn't he? You got him, what, a month after you got rid of me--"

"I would never _get rid of you_!" The emotion in his voice startled even Bruce, the anguish of Jason's death rising to the surface, anger at the very idea that it had been nothing. "I tried to save you--I just _couldn't_ , and I apologize. I would have done anything to save you, Jason."

Jason looked very conflicted at that. He looked down at Tim, who was clearly trembling in held in pain, and then chanced a glance back at Bette, who was glaring at him, tears clearly in her blue eyes. "That's...that's a lie. Talia told me--"

"Talia?" Bruce knew now how Jason had returned. The Lazarus Pit. That bastard had taken his child's remains and thrown them in. "Talia wasn't there. Talia doesn't know how I feel about you--you're my son. I love you. I have loved you since I took you in, Jason. You don't know the agony I was in when you were murdered."

Jason glared, a confused expression, at the wall. "That's not true."

"It is the truth." Bruce stepped forward, voice soft. "Please. Please come home with us--we can help you. You're not right--the pit has messed with your memories and your thoughts. Please let me help you."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "No. _No._ Take your goddamn replacement and go--fuck you! Fuck them all! I hope they die too!"

It was a painful clench in Bruce's chest--but Jason picked up Tim, the positively agonized expression at the movement on Tim's face making whatever he'd been about to say disappear like vapor.

And then Jason threw Tim at him, and Bruce dove to catch him.

"Place's rigged to explode--might want to get out!" Jason shouted, as he ran out.

"Jay! Wait!" Dick was taking off after Jason, voice pained, clearly remembering the small child he'd loved so dearly.

Steph, Roy, and Cass converged on Bette, making as quick work of her bindings as they could--Roy had already thrown her over his shoulder before they could take the time to determine how fast she could go.

Bruce made the decision. "Everyone, out! Now!"

Dick made an agonized sound, and followed them out--and not a second too soon.

It exploded the second they were out of range--thought there was a bit of singeing on Dick.

"Fuck, like god, put me down!" Bette was saying shrilly, and Roy put her down, and despite her obvious limping, she was quickly by Tim's side.

"What did he do?" Bruce wanted to know, holding his son as delicately as he could--Cass was already covering him in an emergency blanket.

He could see the angry bruise around Tim's throat--choking had clearly gone on. There were many other bruises--including a purpling, swelling wrist.

Tim's voice was a rasp when he tried to talk, so Bette quickly took over, voice choked with both tears and rage.

"He fucking beat him with his own bo staff--god, then he choked him and--and--fucking hell, I thought he was going to _kill him_ \--"

Cass tightly hugged Bette, who sobbed into her shoulder.

They had to take both children to the ER--one where they could chalk it up to gang violence, which was certainly believable enough.

Bruce was mildly relieved to know that Tim had not been sexually violated, but he also knew that this was a horrific experience for Tim--and for Bette. Bette, who would not stop talking--and Tim, who would not start.

And Jason was out there, not knowing the truth, confused, and hurting.

It was a conflicted, painful feeling in Bruce's chest--he could not choose between his children.

But it felt like he would have to, if he could not get through to Jason.

He hoped to god he could. And he hoped to god he could heal his children once again.

It was another day that had him doubting himself--his choices. For now, though, he put it aside, and focused on the traumatized kids in front of him--Bette and Tim.

They deserved that. They deserved more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mm. I have decided that things are a titch different in this version--Jason genuinely believes that Bruce wanted him out of the picture, due to extensive gaslighting and shit by Ra's and Talia.
> 
> Their intention was to make him one of theirs--but Talia let him go, essentially.
> 
> And yes, Jason has met Damian at this point. :)
> 
> So, yeah. Different from the comics--cause I feel like he would have a slightly different perspective to comics Jason, and would be just a titch harder to turn against Bruce. Once he figures out Bruce didn't want him out of the picture, he's probably gonna be very pissed that the Joker isn't dead. :P


	50. A Feline Robin Hood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introducing: Selina Kyle, aka Catwoman!

Selina Kyle.

Who could be termed a 'cat burglar'--in more than one sense.

Bruce got the feeling she took up the 'Catwoman' moniker after hearing about him. Apparently, she thought it was funny. In any case, she waltzed into his life rather easily--just about the time that Dick was ten.

She was young-ish--not much younger than Bruce, anyhow. She'd smirked at him as he and Dick were in an elitist's home, hands on her hips, tight catsuit sending Dick tilting his head sideways--he'd certainly seen his share of racy costumes in the circus, and the catsuit was probably not the most immodest by far.

"Who are you and what do you want?" Bruce demanded.

She'd adjusted the straps on her costume absently as she watched him--it was tight, but it was high-quality--not some spandex, but something thick-material and durable. Easy to blend in. Much more expensive and custom-fitted than Bruce's or Dick's work clothes. "Mm. I could ask you the same thing, you know."

"Is she--are you like us?" Dick wanted to know, at first directing his question at Bruce, but switching mid-thought. Bruce had taught him to ask people directly--it showed respect.

He sort of wished he hadn't, right then.

"Ah, like you?" Selina smiled at him, taking a couple steps forward--Dick didn't flinch, seemingly not frightened of her at all.

Bruce tensed, ready to step in.

"Yeah, like us. Beating up bad guys. 's why we're here."

Selina's eyebrows raised behind goggles. She slid them up, blue eyes sparkling. "And does this have to do with Mr. Shaw's recent assault on a young woman? Because, seriously, I could get to like you if you're here for that."

Dick glanced to Bruce, and Bruce sighed.

Mr. Shaw had been allowed to operate too long, either purchasing prostitutes and raping and beating them, or luring poor girls (girls from their goddamn neighborhood, even) into his car or home or what have you, offering treats and money and things, and then sexually violating them. The focus had been on the poor girls.

Bruce's had been on a specific person he knew--a trans prostitute who'd nearly been killed by this man. She was recovering, but the fact that law enforcement had literally laughed in her face was the final straw for Bruce with this man.

"Yes, we're here to put a stop to it, since the law won't," Bruce said.

Selina nodded, a rather appreciative look on her face. "Ah. Then, there should be no issues between us. Go ahead--beat the shit out of that childfucker."

"And you're here for?" Bruce asked pointedly.

"Just some of his valuables--it's kind of what I do. Steal from rich assholes, you know? Like you beat up rich assholes. We'd make a good team, I think," Selina said with a smile. It was somehow seductive, and Bruce could feel the frown grow on his face.

"I'm not like you. I'm not in this for personal gain."

"Oh, as if. You get moral satisfaction out of this--and I get monetary and moral satisfaction. Win-win." Selina smirked again. "See you later, Batman." She'd started to saunter towards what was surely the safe-room, the opposite direction, when Dick said, hurriedly,

"Wait! What's your name?"

She turned to look at him, a positively benevolent, if a little roguish, look on her face. "Oh, how about you call me...Catwoman. That'll do, won't it?"

Bruce frowned again, but resolutely headed for the bastard's room. This was more important than stopping Selina's theft--prioritize.

They handled it quickly, leaving the man snivelling despite having done little to him (mostly shown him pictures of his victims, hurt him a bit, and threatened to do what was in those pictures to him and _if he knew what was good for him he'd become a goddamn monk_ ) and it turned Bruce's stomach a bit, but he felt he had to take action.

It was another of those nights that would leave him defining his morality more tightly--deciding what was right and what was wrong and where the fine lines fell.

But Dick's words as they drove back home had him sighing.

"Catwoman is so cool! She's just like Robin Hood!"

And now Dick had to be brought into the discussion of morality. It was a long night, in all honesty, and Bruce thought he'd convinced Dick that stealing, no matter who from, was really not all right.

But by the next time they saw Selina, he could see Dick mouth 'Robin Hood' under his breath and he just had to sigh to himself.

So much for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's the 50th chapter! :D
> 
> Selina Kyle in this verse has slightly more sensible clothes. :P Still pretty tight, given her work, but yeah--more like in the whole Dark Knight Rises thing, or Black Widow's outfit.
> 
> And she shall factor in more in the future, I think! I am considering a Helena Wayne. :P We shall see.
> 
> Also, thoughts on Carrie Kelley? I'd kinda sorta like to bring her in maybe. Still considering--a shitload of material either way, lol.
> 
> Kitrina Falcone and Sasha are potentialities as well. :D (Obscure characters ftw)
> 
> But yeah. I quite like Selina, much of the time. She's cool. And I always loved her in much of the animated series that she's been in.


	51. A Purple Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph definitely didn't get that black eye on patrol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for implied physical abuse!

Stephanie showed up one day with a black eye she definitely didn't get on patrol.

Bruce could see the way Tim hovered, wanting to ask but barely daring. His blue eyes kept darting to the mottled ring around Steph's eye, and he kept frowning in confusion when she cracked a joke or made jabs at Dick. It was only the three of them home--and Bruce was in the kitchen, finishing up ham and bean soup for dinner.

He was watching from the gap.

"Oh, oh, have you heard this one? I bet Dick's just like, 'But I worked so hard for this grade!' and his professors are all like, 'You shall not pass!'"

Tim bit his lip, but he was past the age he'd been at--past the place where he would pretend to keep the peace. "What happened to your eye, Steph?"

She just grinned very wide and said, "Know what's funny, Tim?"

"Uh...what?"

"Being anything other than a goddamn Puritan makes fists go off. It's true. You gotta keep that shit on safety around anything remotely sexual, right? Cause, you know, someone might kiss someone else, and boom! Right in the vision receptors. We really should keep ours locked up."

The grin on Steph's face almost said it was a joke--the anger in her eyes said it was not.

Tim looked horrified. "Your...your dad hit you?"

It was interesting, because a few years back, that wouldn't seem so horrific to Tim. He might've asked what she'd done to provoke him, even. But Tim of almost fifteen was more aware of reality. Was more aware of how things were supposed to be.

And this Tim was clearly protective of Stephanie and anyone else he cared about.

She laughed. "It's okay, Tim. Some days, you back out of the driveway crooked--other days, you hit your own goddamn kid."

Tim's face was confusion--then fury. A fire in his eyes that Bruce didn't often get to see. "Where do you live? Where is he?"

Steph's face quickly turned to alarm. "Whoa, shit, Tim, calm down--"

"No. No! That's not okay, I'm going to go--"

"Timothy!" Stephanie snapped, "Do not go to beat up my goddamn dad! Yeah, he's a fucking asshole, but good god! He's also a sorta mob boss! You really want to be Luke against the Emperor-- _without_ Vader on hand?"

Tim's teeth audibly ground, and he let out a growl of frustration. "How can you--how can you make _jokes_ about this? It isn't funny! It isn't okay! He shouldn't--he shouldn't _hurt_ you!"

Steph was looking at Tim like he was an anomaly. An endearing anomaly. "Come on, Tim--if I didn't laugh, I'd cry--and then I'd never get anything done." 

Tim sniffled. "It's not okay..."

"Dude, I know it's not," Stephanie said, and Bruce was wondering if he should step in. Say something. Because he knew there was not much he could do to get her out of there--money to grease the palms, plus the threat towards social worker and CPS lives, would likely stall any attempt to get her out.

But then, Tim hugged Steph tightly, murmuring, "You're not alone, okay? You're not. I'm--I'm here--so's everyone else, okay?"

And it was awkward but so heartfelt--and Stephanie clutched him back tightly.

"I know. I know." The voice was small, but it was probably the most genuine Bruce had heard from Steph so far.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry your dad's an asshole."

"Not your fault, Tim."

"Yeah, but he'll never say it." Tim said this with such certainty, such intimate knowledge, and Bruce knew that he knew exactly that feeling. 

He could hear Steph's voice waver, as she said, "Yeah."

He gave them privacy. They deserved that. He didn't need to spy on every bit of his kids' lives, as much as he wanted to know Steph was all right.

She came into the kitchen a bit later, Tim following in her wake.

"Bruce, we should learn how to break knee joints today." Her face was puffy and red, but she was grinning at him kind of cockily. She had a hand on Tim's forearm, almost possessive, but not quite--and still Bruce felt a small jerk of fear.

No, Stephanie was not going to hurt Tim--it was all right.

He gave her a smile anyway. "How about we learn pressure points? That's more useful and less potentially damaging."

Steph sighed, "Kay, fine." Her eyes darted a touch nervously towards him, but then that confidence was back. "Tim and I are going to practice the one--the third kata? Yeah, that one."

"You do that."

Bruce knew that him offering to be talked to at any time would be taken as an invasion of privacy from Steph--for now, she had Tim, and presumably Cass. He simply offered as much empathy as he could.

"Don't forget to stay for dinner." He said this, knowing homemade, hot meals were not exactly the most common in Steph's world--her mother was far more likely to heat up a pizza or something else storebought.

"Yeah, okay."

And she and Tim set to work on the kata.

Bruce sighed to himself. She would be okay, he thought to himself--he would keep an eye.

He couldn't help but wonder if he was overextending himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is often how I deal/have dealt with abuse. Through being a snark monster.
> 
> Sometimes gets me in trouble if I use it in the direct situation, but yeah. This is also the hallmark of my twin's reactions to abuse generally.


	52. Orphan Number Six (of sorts): Damian Wayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lethal child is introduced into Bruce's life unexpectedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Let me know what you think!

Damian was probably the biggest surprise out of any of Bruce's kids.

Partially because he was biologically his kid, and Bruce had thought he'd know about any kid he fathered before an entire _decade_ had passed. That, and he wasn't exactly the most sexually active person, so the chances were rather low of him having a kid out there that he didn't know about.

And of course, Damian's appearance, the way he was suddenly shoved into Bruce's life, was probably the most shocking part.

Roy and Dick were both at Gotham U at the moment--they tended to take weekends home, the trip being fairly easy to make on a weekly basis as opposed to a daily basis. Bette was counting down the days til she joined them.

Tim, Cass, and Steph were off doing 'teenage hanging' which currently translated to an interesting version of a role play card game played at Taco Bell.

Jason liked to crash those and critique their interpretations of characters.

It had only ended in blows one time out of dozens so far.

So, it was only him and Bette in the house, at that moment. Bette, who was out cold after giving a speech at a huge speech competition that was friendly to homeschoolers, small glass trophy in hand--third place out of twenty. So, it was mostly Bruce who was here, in all honesty.

And he instantly heard the telltale sound of the front door lock being picked.

He was standing, holding his baseball bat, when the intruders entered--woman, small child--

_Talia._

Not aged a day, it seemed. He was frowning in her direction anyway--there was little reason to be on that great of terms with her anymore, what with what she and her father had done to his family. "Talia. What do you want?"

"Bruce..." she said this almost softly, then, her voice toughened up. "I see your arsenal has hardly improved since we last met."

It was definitely different than the last time they truly interacted. He had certainly seen her since Jason's resurrection, had been furious with her--but they hadn't really talked. Assassins didn't generally keep in touch well with those who were not assassins--or really related to them in any way. It wasn't as though there was a cell number he could just dial.

"You're an assassin. Why change a very effective weapon for a different one if there's no need?" Bruce responded, though he did put the bat down. It was a bit clunky for the more agile fighting style that Talia had anyway.

Obviously, if he could keep her the bat's length away, that would be a different story, but she was the type to get right into his space, like she--and he--had been taught.

"This place smells."

The boy said it, and it wasn't a mere observation--it was sharp, as in, 'I can't believe you brought me to this pig sty. You said it was better than this.'

He turned to truly look at the boy--he'd certainly noted size, the way he stood like a fighter, estimated him to be around ten years old, and that frown...it was like it was permanently etched in his face.

This boy was a trained assassin.

And Bruce's heart hurt just knowing that. Because one didn't get that good in even one year or two--this boy had to have been trained for _years_. And that would make up most of his existence, and that was _horrific_ , knowing what he knew of such training.

His eyes must have looked cutting when they turned back to Talia. "What do you want, Talia?"

She might have been amused in another circumstance, he thought, taking a young assassin with her who turned out to be rude. But she wasn't. Her face was grim, and the thought struck Bruce--this child mattered to her.

But why?

"Bruce Wayne, Batman, meet your son, Damian Wayne."

It was like a shock of ice had been dumped on his head. Had it been his kids who pulled this, brought some child in to pretend he was Bruce's, he might, _maybe_ , think it was a joke. Laugh it off.

But this was _Talia_ \--and suddenly, her disappearance for a year or more when they broke up made sense. And suddenly, he felt like the worst partner and father in the world rolled up into one.

Damian didn't look pleased with this either. "This is him? I thought he'd be taller."

His voice was like a knife, and it shouldn't be, if Bruce had known, if he'd been able to raise him--

The enormity of what had happened through him being kept in the dark, through his thoughtlessly leaving Talia, through not clarifying when she'd assumed he didn't want his goddamned _mission_ disturbed--

He didn't know who to be angry at. He found himself fighting to keep himself under control, to look at this dead-eyed child and know that he had a hand in making him _this_.

Damian was watching them both sharply, obviously trying to pick up cues.

"My...son?" Bruce didn't think he could sound stupider, more like some idiot who didn't get how children were made.

"Is he retarded?" Damian asked, frowning at him but talking to Talia. "Didn't he hear you?"

There was something in the boy's posture--something extremely tense. And yet, it was like this was every day to him, like his muscles never truly unclenched.

"Damian, please don't talk about your father that way. He is one of the smartest men I know." Talia's eyes landed on him once again. They softened just a bit, like she was remembering she had once loved him. "I need to talk to you in the other room."

Damian looked disagreeable to this, but obedient. He dropped into Indian style sitting, watching them with suspicious, dark eyes.

He and Talia secluded themselves in the kitchen, Bruce tense, but recognizing that Talia was unlikely to attempt to hurt him. The situation did not suggest that at all. "What is it?"

Talia's face was solemn, and sliver of emotion sneaked through, a flash of pain, fear, in her eyes. "I...need to get Damian out. He's not going to..." She pressed her lips together. "He can't survive this. My father is more extreme than ever. He expects Damian to be his heir, and is getting sorely disappointed with him."

She glanced back in the general direction, even though Damian couldn't see them or they him. "He's exceptional, but my father's standards...they're unreachable. Especially for him."

Bruce felt a sort of dry throat, the general nausea and horror of 'this is my son and he was abused for a decade without my knowledge' still in his being, making his vision seem to cloud a bit, but he nodded.

Ra's had never struck him as truly level-headed or reasonable. Or as anything that should be in charge of children.

His heart gave a brief pulse, an ache, for Talia, for the dark rings he could see under her eyes, the ones that had perhaps been there longer than he'd been alive--he'd just only seen the glittering green when they'd been together.

He almost reached out to her, but her body language screamed to be left alone, to be allowed to remain strong enough to do this.

"I...I'll take him here. Of course. Of course." He was feeling stupid as he talked, words repeating.

"You'll keep him safe?" Talia said, eyes searching his for signs of wanting revenge. For Jason. For all his children they'd hurt, but especially Jason.

She lived in the sort of cutthroat world someone might try to get revenge through harming a ten year old boy, after all.

"I promise."

They walked back out. She pointed to the ground, in a gesture that struck Bruce as alarmingly like ordering a dog. "Stay here."

Damian's eyes widened, a kind of horror slowly blossoming in them. "Mother, you can't be serious, this is a ridiculous place to stay. I don't even know him, and I have duties to--"

"You are staying here, Damian. With your father. Do you understand?"

Her tone was hard, allowing no arguments.

But Damian managed to push an argument in there anyway. "I know English, of course I understand what you're saying--it's just ridiculous, and I won't--"

" _You will stay._ "

The tone would have been terrifying to most people. Fury ignited in Damian's eyes, however, and he snarled, "No, no, you can't do that, Mother--!"

"Damian, don't you understand?" she said, and Bruce wasn't sure what she was protecting him from, wished she would fill him on so he would understand, and from the years ago he'd known her, the icy, heartless tone was probably hurting her all too soft heart, "I don't want you. I don't want you with me, and I don't want you with the League. I don't want you around me at all."

It hurt Bruce to hear--but it clearly hurt Damian more. 

His eyes were searching his mother's face, trying to understand what was going on, how he could be cast off like an old coat--and he was clearly struggling for words in the face of what must be a great betrayal.

"Stay here. Or don't. Just don't come back," Talia said, and she stalked out.

Damian reached for her, surprisingly belatedly for an assassin-from-babyhood, and let out a small, "Mother!"

And she was gone.

And the terrified, disoriented face of Damian Wayne turned on Bruce--and swiftly, almost instantly, morphed into rage. Fury. As if him seeing Damian want his mother to not abandon him to a man he didn't know was pure weakness and he needed to make up for it.

Bruce took one step towards him--bad move.

Damian shrieked at him, "Come near me, and I'll kill you!"

Bruce dutifully took a step back. He didn't doubt it could be a difficult fight at best. "Damian, I would never hurt you--"

"I don't believe a word--you're a liar!" Damian threw a lamp, and it shattered against the wall.

Bruce didn't know what to do, entirely. It was so unexpected, and he knew so very little about Damian--he was clearly upset, and tended to be angry when scared like that, but that was it. He didn't know what to avoid, and he didn't know what to do.

How Talia comforted him.

Damian threw another lamp, directly at him. "Get away from me!"

And Bruce decided to give Damian his space--and make sure Bette was all right. He moved to the top of the steps, wordlessly.

Damian couldn't see him, and Bruce couldn't see Damian, but Bruce could hear Damian, and as a confused Bette came over to him, jerked out of sleep face full of alarm, he listened. Bette sat next to him on the steps, listening too.

Damian wore himself out in the space of a couple hours. The child had a lot of stamina.

The living room was trashed by the time it was early, early morning, and Damian hidden away in the coat closet, knives ready to stab anyone who tried opening the door.

Bruce was sure he'd heard him crying, in his rage and fear at being abandoned. And he cursed Ra's for doing this to his son--even Talia for not letting him save Damian sooner.

If he was indeed saving him. That had yet to be seen. He could very well fail.

And that thought sent him sinking into his shredded chair, and Bette, in an alert fashion that Bruce was sure would fade back to sleep in the next couple hours, brewed them both tea.

It was going to be one hell of family meeting when the others got back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel such a discovery would be huge, rock you to the core kinda thing. I mean, you have a tiny human that's yours you didn't even know about--that's a big thing.
> 
> Especially one that's Damian. Especially when you can see the effect of you not knowing. :(
> 
> Poor Damian is not doing so hot with the separation.
> 
> As for Talia--she has finally kinda figured out that her father is abusive, and is in turn abusing Damian. And while she sees no hope for herself, she can handle it--she doesn't think Damian can, and she wants to protect him. And the only way she knows to get him to stay away is for him to think she doesn't love or want him.
> 
> Which is a horribly cruel way of doing it, but fairly characteristic of someone who has not exactly had clear models for how to love your kid. To her, explaining to Damian and letting him feel some agency is a foreign concept.
> 
> Yeah. So, hope you liked it.
> 
> I figure Damian is very much like the other orphans Bruce has taken in--especially since they're starting pretty much from square one. Or square negative one. Poor Dami.


	53. No Doctor's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is sick, but adamantly insists he's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on me and being sick in my household. :P

Tim had issues, and Bruce knew that.

He knew he had issues with control, with emotional expression, with anxiety, and so on. All things that could be expected, and really, who didn't have issues? Tim's just were somewhat ingrained and slowly killing him from the inside out.

Well, Bruce liked to think he was helping with that. He felt like they were making progress--he was able to pull out of himself, where he wanted to be, to help Tim, and in turn pull Tim out of his shell.

This day, however, he wasn't so certain.

Tim's head kept dipping towards the table, then jerking back up. His face was pale, his lips looked dry, and his hands were trembling as he reached for his spoon for the oatmeal Bruce had made (the kind with dinosaur eggs--always a favorite among his boys).

"Tim, are you not feeling well?" Bruce asked, as delicately as he could. In a way that didn't sound like an accusation--or so he thought.

"No, no--'m not sick," and Tim seemed to shake his head, desperate to clear it, "I'm not sick," he enunciated as clearly as possible.

He very clearly was. Bruce got out of his seat, putting his own spoon down. He pressed a hand against Tim's forehead--a bit warm. Not a fever, but not necessarily a good sign combined with everything else. 

Tim was staying absolutely still, possibly even holding his breath. Bruce drew his hand away with a frown.

"Tim, you're sure you're not sick?"

"Positive--definitely not sick. I feel great, just a little tired, that's all," Tim said, and it looked like his head might dip into his oatmeal.

It was almost impressive that he could lie that well while clearly feeling that poorly.

Bruce sat down. He'd watch Tim for a bit, see what he did, at least to figure out what was going on. Maybe, just maybe, Tim legitimately didn't know he was sick. Maybe there was a neurological problem, and he'd best look for the symptoms of things like a stroke or something.

Tim managed to finish his oatmeal, and staggered to the kitchen. He'd taken Bruce's empty bowl and spoon too--and Bruce remembered it was Tim's turn to do the dishes this morning. He couldn't seriously intend to do it, could he? His knees kept bending, kept seemingly trying to get him to fall or sit down.

And with a floppy hand, he started scrubbing rather ineffectively at the bowl.

Bruce stayed where he was a moment longer, trying to figure out why exactly Tim would insist he was fine when he so clearly was not.

It seemed to click, just a bit, when he heard Tim sniffle--a sure sign of high-level Tim sadness.

He was scrubbing at his face with an oatmeal and soap bubble covered hand as Bruce came into the kitchen, and on seeing Bruce, tried to straighten up more. "I'll get it done. I just..."

His voice wavered, but he corrected it, and pushed on, "I'll get it done. I gotta go to school..."

Bruce said, "Tim, you're sick. You're not going to school."

That was about when the tears, clearly pushing through the soap bubbles on his face, became even more in earnest. "No," he said, a bit softly, then more desperately. "No, I have to go to school...I have to do that, I have to."

Bruce sighed, and came over and eased the still-not-clean bowl out of Tim's hands. It was far too easy. "It's okay to miss a day--and besides which, since your head injury is still not completely healed, I would never send you to school like this."

Tim was obviously trying to put on a healthy face, a 'See, I was just being whiny' face. "No, I'm okay. I can go--I'm, I'm really good at going to school."

And he seemed to stagger again, and Bruce caught him. And Tim didn't push him away this time, as he often did--instead, his hands seized the front of Bruce's t-shirt and used that to hold himself up.

Bruce started to guide him to the couch, resisting the urge to pick him up and take him there. "Come on, there's a good boy...you're going to lie down, okay?"

Tim started on a fresh batch of tears. "No, no, not sick, I'm not, I swear...I can talk, I know--I know what's going on, I'm not sick--"

Bruce managed to get him to the couch anyway, gently making him sit while the boy cried rather pathetically. In the sense that he was sick enough he couldn't cry very hard, not that there was no real reason to cry. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay, Tim, it's probably just the flu--"

"No, I'm not sick, I'm sorry," Tim kept insisting, trying to stand up even though he was clearly going to fall on his face.

Something was incredibly off here. Bruce looked at his foster son with a quizzical expression, asking him, as softly as possible, "Tim, why are you sorry? It's all right to be sick. You didn't choose to be sick, and besides, it's my job to care for you, no matter if you're healthy all the time or seriously sick. Okay?"

"But you'll hate me," Tim whimpered, "If I'm sick too long, or too bad, you'll hate me."

And another puzzle piece of Tim's upbringing fell into place. Bruce put hand on Tim's head, gently directing his gaze towards him. If Tim put up resistance, he wouldn't _make_ him look at him, but the boy didn't. His blue eyes were sickness-fogged and teary. An absolutely miserable, fearful look in them.

"Tim, you could be sick til you're thirty and I wouldn't hate you for it. It's my job, as your parent, to take care of you--even if it's difficult or inconvenient. Okay?"

Tim looked like he wanted to believe him, but he knew deep down it wasn't true. "I'll get better soon, though. I will."

Bruce resisted the urge to hug him tightly, knowing Tim might freak out, and instead said, "Okay. If you don't get well quickly, that's okay too. For now, let's watch a movie. How about Lord of the Rings?"

"...which one?" Tim asked, getting that look that made Bruce feel a lot of hope for his surviving personality. The look said, 'Do you have any idea what you're talking about here, or do I need to educate you?'

He laughed. "The Return of the King. That's your favorite, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Tim sighed, seeming to calm down some.

He ended up curled up on the couch, cocooned in blankets. At some point, as they made their way through Gattaca, having already watched a couple of the old Star Trek movies (Tim might've cried about the space whales, Bruce wasn't certain), Tim put his head on Bruce's leg and slept there.

Bruce stayed still, watching Tim sleep without a troubled expression on his face. He looked pretty calm, curled up and with his hands near his head.

And Bruce could have stayed there forever, in all honesty. Would have, if that was what Tim wanted.

He couldn't quite explain the emotions that rose in his chest, the memories of his boys sleeping on him on the rare occasion, the fact that Tim apparently trusted him enough to do so, or at least that he found comfort in it. It was like being transported back to simpler times, in some ways, if they were really simpler or simply easier because he didn't have an extra tragedy weighing heavily on him.

He stayed there long after Gattaca was over.

And yes, Tim did get better soon--but not in a hurry. He took just as long as he needed, and managed to relax as much as that tension-riddled boy could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gattaca is an awesome movie, but good god, there are some parts I hate with a motherfucking passion. I can't say what they are, cause spoilers (even if the movie is almost twenty years old), but let's just say I vehemently agree with the sentiment that no life is a throwaway, especially in the case of the disabled.
> 
> As for poor Tim--his mother, who is a narcissist, would get extremely annoyed at her son being sick when it wasn't on her timetable. Essentially, if it was somehow a convenient thing, yes, look at me, I'm a saint mother taking care of my sick child. Most of the time, however, it was annoyance and constantly trying to catch him faking.
> 
> Cause that's what my mum does! Yay! Being sick becomes like being watched by the KGB or being in the Inquisition. "I saw you jump up and down earlier about something. *implication of not really being sick*" "Yes, Mom, and I threw up about two minutes later in the bathroom because I forgot and moved too much." 
> 
> Or, you know, that some sickness comes in ebbs and flows. "Oh, you did your laundry today, you must be better." "Yes, and that's literally all I managed to do today, Mom."
> 
> :I Good times, man, good times. Luckily, if you're so sick you are delirious and bed-ridden, she generally takes it as being true. *two thumbs up*
> 
> I am currently going through this, so, yeah. Fun shit. She is convinced I'm falling down and shit cause I like 'time off'--but the reality is that, in comparison to being stuck here all day, I love being at work and I get paid for that, so I'd much rather not be having 'time off' at home being judged for every move I make and curled up on my bed waiting for waves of nausea to pass. 
> 
> (Sorry, I got ranty. Living with a narcissist is fun.)


	54. Hot Dog, It's the Fourth!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason's first 4th of July celebration (With requisite hot dogs and plastic kiddie pool).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff kinda chapter, I think. :)

The barbecue was an old thing, practically like one of those ancient ones you saw in a park--stuffed full of trash and cigarette butts, often as not. But this one could be moved--and it definitely worked.

And Bruce had gotten the coals going.

Jason was watching him like he was crazy. Or, rather, like he didn't understand what was happening. He kept tilting his head to the side, watching with a crinkled brow, a discerning look in his eyes. They were not as sharp as when he was truly suspicious, just trying to figure out what was happening, but recognizing it was unlikely to be malicious.

Bruce smiled to himself, and asked Jason, "Have you ever had grilled hot dogs before?"

"From a hot dog cart..." Jason said slowly, then his mouth pinched a bit. "I stole em."

"Those might not have been grilled," Bruce said, a bit gently, not making an accusatory statement towards Jason's theft. He knew it had been to survive. "It's not often the way that hot dog carts work."

"So...you're gonna cook them in an ash tray?" Jason asked, bewildered.

Bruce shook his head. "This isn't an ash tray; it's a grill. You cook food on it. A lot of people have fancier ones, but this works. It cooks our hot dogs and burgers and so on, right, Dick?"

Dick had just shown up, beaming, with his arms full of hot dogs and other grillables. "Yeah! It's the best, it barely even has an ash taste!"

Jason's nose crinkled. "...what?"

"Bruce tends to overcook a little," Dick filled him in, a mischievous grin on his face.

Bruce rolled his eyes at his elder son, saying, "Ha, ha, Dick. If you want to cook and give everyone salmonella, you can do that--on your own unsuspecting victims."

Dick snorted, dumping the food on the fold up table they'd brought out. "Don't worry, Jay, it's really good. You're gonna like it! And then we're gonna have sparklers, and we can sit in the kiddie pool--if you want, it's really not that exciting---and there's gonna be watermelon--"

Jason actually perked up at that. "Watermelon?"

He did seem to have a thing for fresh fruits and veggies. As well as bread, for that matter.

"Yeah!" Dick grinned over at Bruce, as if to say, 'Look, I got him excited about the 4th of July! We're so good at parenting!'

Bruce held down the chuckle. Dick very much seemed to consider himself Jason's parent at times, and it was frankly both hilarious and endearing. He supposed it was better Dick was very much on board than him being mad that Jason was here.

Still, Dick should remember he was a child too.

"You two go get the kiddie pool set up," Bruce said, "I'll get the grilling going."

"Yeah! I get the hose, you get the kiddie pool--it's right over there--yeah, the one with all the gunk in it!" Dick was positively burbling with excitement, and it was contagious.

Jay was getting excited too, rolling out the old, blue plastic pool. He held it up so that Dick could spray it with the hose (though 'spray' was a rather strong word for the water pressure of the hose) and get the dead leaves and dirt out.

And Bruce was smiling to himself as the food was slowly grilling, the smell of cooking hot dogs and even a few burgers filling the air, as well as the vegetables.

"No, no, fuck, that's cold!" he could hear Jason shout, but not in a fearful way--more like 'my annoying brother doused me with the hose' kind of voice. "I'm going to get you!"

"You can try, Jay," came the cocky response from Dick.

Bruce watched them fight over the hose, some of the water making it into the kiddie pool, most of it not. Bruce figured he could definitely afford the water--Gotham had a big enough reservoir and rainfall that water wasn't terribly expensive. Not like in areas that experienced drought.

Or had severe corruption in that department.

He turned over the hot dogs as he watched his boys, as Jason finally got ahold of the hose and shoved it down the back of Dick's pants.

They were sopping wet by the time he got their attention. "Hot dogs are done. Dick, you remembered the ketchup and mustard?"

"And the onions!"

"Yes, and those," Bruce said, shaking his head. 

"Ew, onions," Jason murmured, and looked at Bruce with a conspiratorial look in his eyes that said, 'See, we both hate onions--it's us against Dick!'

It made Bruce laugh. He got them both two hot dogs in buns a piece, and then settled his own plate as he finished the grilling.

Dick smothered his hot dogs in mustard, ketchup, and onions--he was always fond of condiments, it seemed.

Jason simply smeared a thin line each of mustard and ketchup on his. He seemed to have strangely more refined tastes than Dick or Bruce at times. He was eating pretty happily, rocking in his folding chair a little and making it creak.

"Hey, Bruce," Dick said, mouth wreathed in ketchup and mustard, "We got napkins?"

"That would be another thing you were supposed to grab," Bruce said, not accusingly, but with a tone that suggested he was teasing about Dick bringing his woes on his own head.

"I'll get em! I know where they are!" Jason positively chirped, which was a tone he only got when very pleased with life in general.

Bruce smiled over at Dick. He didn't mean to, but his smile was a touch sad, and he could see Dick pick up on it.

"What's up?" Dick asked, concern on his face. "Jay's not dying, is he?"

"No, no, definitely not," Bruce said, quick to assure Dick, "It's just...I feel like you need to remember that you're a child too."

Dick gave him a funny look. "Okay...I know I'm a minor, Bruce."

"A child."

"Okay..." Dick looked down at his hot dog. "You know I just love him, right? I don't want to be his dad or whatever. That's how big brothers act. They take care of the baby bro, right?"

Bruce smiled at that. Jason would not like being called 'baby' anything. He decided to leave it to rest for now. 

And good thing he did, because Jason came barreling out of the house and pretty much assaulted Dick's face with a wad of napkins.

The rest of the 4th of July stuff went well. They had burgers, they had soda, and Dick and Jason splashed around in the kiddie pool until it was time for sparklers. And Jason's eyes lit up like Christmas lights when he got to have his first sparkler.

Dick generously allowed him to have most of them, as Jason wordlessly stared at each one, watching it sparkle and pop as it slowly went down the stick.

Yes, a good first 4th of July for Jason, in any way of thinking of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am at that point where every muscle is tense and I want fight/bite everyone, so, writing is going interestingly. Yay unnecessarily caused stress!! :'D
> 
> Anywho. I basically used some of my childhood memories. Grilling, kiddie pools, sparklers...yeah. :) Jaybird's my little cutie. Not 100% sure he wouldn't recognize it as a grill, but, eh.


	55. A Smooth Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette is supposed to testify--but things don't go as planned.

"So, like," Bette said, adjusting her curls, which had been teased into place that morning for what seemed like two hours, "This whole thing, it's not gonna take forever, right? I have so much shit to do, like you wouldn't believe."

Bruce pressed his lips together. Something like this could take a long time, or it could be very short. He knew. He'd been here with Tim. "I don't know, Bette. It may take some time."

Bette huffed out a sigh, readjusted the pencil skirt she was wearing. She had dressed up sharply, if a touch glamorously. Her suit jacket was immaculately pressed, her makeup coordinated, and she wore a small, gold locket on her throat. The picture of a well-adjusted, well-raised teen. The kind that went to state in a speech contest.

Instead, she was here to testify against her father.

He wasn't supposed to be in the building while she testified, or at least he was to have no contact with her--visual or otherwise. That settled Bruce's stomach a little, because he could still remember the look on Tim's face when he'd had to testify against his father--and mother.

His father had probably been the more apologetic one, though not by a lot. And when one compared Janet, it wasn't exactly commendable.

But Bette was here, and at least she wouldn't have to see her father.

"Are you ready?" Bruce asked softly, wanting her to see she didn't have to be scared, wanting to calm her nerves.

She shifted from foot to foot, her black high heels seeming to squeak against the floor a bit. "Yeah? Like, I'm great, kay? Let's handle this and then go get a smoothie or something."

Bruce just nodded, and they headed in.

His heart caught in his throat at what he saw, and his face immediately turned towards Bette's to see if she was okay.

She was frozen like a deer in the headlights, a look of 'you said!' in her eyes.

Because there was Mr. Kane, seated in the defendant area, like he was in a normal case involving some civil litigation. His hands were folded in front of him, his suit charcoal colored, and his tie red. He turned to see his daughter, and his gaze was as if this was all normal--didn't smile, but didn't grin like a creeper either. Just sort of acknowledged that he'd seen her.

Bruce was immediately stepping forward, wanting to shield Bette, because goddamnit, this was not normal procedure, he was sure--

"What is Mr. Kane doing here?" he demanded, trying hard to keep his tone civil so he wouldn't be held in contempt of court.

"Mr. Kane," came the annoyingly professional voice of Mr. Kane's lawyer, "has the right to see his accuser."

"I was told--" Bruce barely got to snap this out, before the sharp voice of a woman cut through the courtroom.

"Honorable Judge Wellman, this is outrageous--am I to understand that the sexual abuser of a minor is being allowed to face her when there has been sufficient evidence to remove her from his home?"

Bruce's head turned, and there was a tiny woman in a sharp black skirtsuit--and her dark eyes were even sharper. She looked like she could cut someone with a look, and like she was considering doing so at that moment.

"Ms. Park," the judge said, "Mr. Ramsey has filed a defamation case on behalf of his client--"

"The sexual abuse of a minor charge negates any rights to see the accuser that he may have in that case," Ms. Park responded, "I request that Mr. Kane is removed from court immediately, for the psychological wellbeing of my client."

Bruce could see the way Bette was pale, was just barely turned into a defensive position--but also confusion was on her face. Like she didn't know how to act--whether to be glad to see her father, angry, scared--anything. Like she was questioning everything she knew.

And he wanted to hug her, to assure her that it was all right to feel what she felt, that she had no reason to be ashamed, that her father had done something despicable and that wasn't her fault--but he couldn't look like he was influencing her.

Judge Wellman considered, seemed to assess Bette, and said, "The case is being moved to a later date in the interest of the wellbeing of the accuser. On that date, proper procedure will be followed and Mr. Kane will not be present at Bette Kane's testimony."

Bruce caught Mr. Ramsey trying to protest, to insist against New York state law and proceedings in language that suggested the interpretation of the law was inaccurate in this case, but he only heard a bit as he got Bette out of there.

She was clearly trembling, wiping her hands on her skirt, which was really not a material to be absorbent. "Ha, that--that, uh..." she weakly trailed off at her attempt at bravado.

Then, suddenly, like the sound of a bell, she burst into sobs, hands bunching up in her hair. Bruce gently, carefully, put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her towards another, slightly more private spot, next to a large, fake potted plant.

He didn't ask if she was okay. It was clear she wasn't, and she would probably insist she was if he asked.

He just kept his hand resting gently on her shoulder as they sat, right on the wooden floor, and she tried to collect herself.

It made him feel anger towards lawyers who chose cases like these to push their agendas or to try to force a law to be reinterpreted. It wasn't exactly a common thing, but it happened. Especially with what he would call bigshot lawyers, the kind who wanted to make their mark in a field that tended to be both reviled and have a high, high suicide rate.

Bette hiccuped, and Bruce passed her some tissues, which she scrubbed at her streaming makeup with. "Hey, yeah," Bette managed, voice a lot less peppy than normal, "Guess it's a regular family reunion, huh? Like, I saw my mom in the pews or whatever looking like she was a zombie or some shit--cept really weepy too. Yeah. Didn't look at me really, though, cause like, god, then people might know she was my mom and that'd be embarrassing, right?"

Bruce hadn't even seen Mrs. Kane. He felt like he should have. "You're not an embarrassment. None of this is your fault. You know that, right?"

"Sure! Cause it's not like I'm the one who got him caught and shit!" Bette said with false brightness.

"Bette. It can't be your fault, no matter what you did. You're a child, and he's an adult who knows better," Bruce said firmly, "No matter what anyone says, you're innocent."

"Like a lamb," Bette said, but despite the sarcasm, she seemed to be calmed down. "Can we go home?"

Bruce nodded, giving her a hand up after standing. She was surprisingly able to maneuver well in the tight skirt and high heels. "Yes, let's go home."

"And I'm making us some smoothies, okay? I know we only have like bananas and those bruised up peaches, but I'm gonna work magic, kay? Like, Merlin level shit."

Bruce laughed. "I'd like that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Bette. I felt bad writing this.
> 
> Legal terminology and shit may be a touch off. Sorry!


	56. To Strengthen the Jaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian needs to be able to calm down. And Bruce feels like it's a harder battle than he thought it would be.

One thing that Bruce quickly picked up on with Damian--the boy was extremely tactile. And kinetic. He liked to move, and his sense of touch was very important in his ability to do things like calm down.

Damian was a highly-traumatized kid. They'd been authorized to take care of him, officially recognized as Bruce's biological son, but he was still in many ways out of Bruce's depth.

He screamed at times, smashed things, had full on meltdowns--and threatened his other children's lives on occasion. He was obnoxious, pompous, and dangerous.

And that was Bruce's responsibility, given that Damian was ten.

So, ways to help Damian calm down and deal with the high stress were found.

"It's called a spinner ring," Bruce explained to Damian, offering the ring. It was designed to spin endlessly, with the force from the ring-wearer. He could turn it around and around his finger, if he so chose, something that might occupy him when it seemed like he was going to go mad on all of them.

Damian glared. "Fidgeting is for children."

He had been a handful, to be sure, liable to smashing things (lamps, walls, the TV) and just generally looking like he wanted to tear his own skin off.

"Just try it," Bruce said, "Wear it for the day and see if you don't like it."

Damian grudgingly took the ring, sliding it onto his finger.

For at least two hours, he didn't so much as touch it. By the end of the day, however, Bruce could see him almost absently turning it as they watched Cass's shows on the (second-hand and just acquired) TV. He didn't threaten to fight anyone that evening.

When Bruce approached him again a couple days later, he could see the way Damian hid the ring a bit, like he thought Bruce might take it back now. Instead, however, Bruce handed him something new.

"What is this?" Damian demanded, looking somewhat horrified at the prospect of the thing.

"It's for chewing on," Bruce explained, "I noticed how much you like gum, and I thought this might be good for when we don't have gum."

Damian stared at the rubbery carrot-shaped pendant. "You can't seriously--"

"You don't have to show it to anyone, if you don't want. It's not a baby toy, or a dog toy--it's just a way to relieve stress or tension. Like gum," Bruce said, and he'd thought he was making it across to Damian.

Apparently not, because Damian threw away the pendant with an angry snarl. "I'm not some child you can appease with chewy toys! I only chew gum because it strengthens my jaw!"

It was a blatant lie, but Damian's eyes were blazing, teeth grinding, his entire posture spoke of being pulled tight and ready to snap forth in violence.

Bad move there, Bruce. He sighed, and said, "Okay, I'm sorry. I made a mistake--I didn't understand how you would feel about that. You don't have to keep it if you don't want to."

"Good, because I don't want to!" Damian snarled, and he ran away.

Bruce wished he'd been able to do more than get Damian basic therapy for the placement--but at the same time, he wasn't certain he could risk someone's life should they upset Damian, and he hadn't had a lot of choice about the evaluation and such.

Damian hadn't revealed a lot. Just enough that the therapist had made a couple recommendations.

Including these things to keep Damian from getting stressed. And including potential diagnoses.

Diagnosis didn't matter so much to Bruce as what worked. They could call Damian a purple elephant, but if something not 'purple elephant' worked for him, that was what mattered to Bruce.

The boy was like a fist, all the time, and Bruce wanted to bring him out of there.

He walked in later on on Cass with Damian. She seemed to stay around him a lot, a mostly impassive look on her face, and Bruce still wasn't sure if she cared for Damian and was trying to help him, or if she was trying to protect her other siblings--or both.

There was a sack of gummy bears between them, and Bruce knew Cass had drawn from her petsitting money, what little there was, to pay for it.

And it looked half gone, and Damian was clearly chewing more of them. And had a look of almost contentment on his face, as he watched Cass's show (at the moment, she was working through 'The Brady Bunch') and curled up in a blanket.

Bruce backed out of the room quietly, sure they knew he was there, but giving some privacy. 

Add gummy bears to the grocery list, then. He would see how to squeeze that in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is not perfect, but I wanted to post it. I kinda headcanon Damian as autistic, somewhere on the spectrum. Cause my sis is on that spectrum, and there's certainly parallels, even though she's really not violent.
> 
> And Bruce is going about it a bit wrong, but at least he's trying.
> 
> I kinda got inspired by a really great fanfic about Damian having a meltdown--it really seemed to describe the experience vividly and has stuck with me.
> 
> I feel like Cass would have some sense of it, since she's certainly met a wide range of people.
> 
> (And honestly, Damian, who wouldn't want a chewy carrot to have with them? I would.)
> 
> And here is the story that helped inspire this headcanon! http://archiveofourown.org/works/4499382


	57. If All The Raindrops Were Gum Drops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass and Tim enjoy the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff chapter! :D

Cass was running her fingers over the plastic material of her raincoat.

It was polka-dotted on the inside and bright yellow on the outside—a remnant from the nineties. She seemed delighted with it, watching Tim trudge along with his own dark blue one. 

She also had rubber boots, and seemed to be almost vengefully splashing in every puddle. Bruce smiled to himself, remembering the worn crocs that had been her shoes beforehand. He still remembered looking at the worn away bottoms, the complete lack of tread, and wondering how she managed.

Or how she didn’t get severe frostbite.

“You’re splashing me,” Tim complained, sidestepping a puddle.

And Cass got the most frankly adorable look on her face-- _Yeah, I am_ \--and splashed as hard as she could in the puddle, soaking Tim’s jeans and her own pink sweats.

If it was honestly cold out, Bruce would have been concerned. As it was, he just watched, glad to see Cass _playing_ for once. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d seen her try to be self-sufficient and such when she didn’t need to be, or not do the fun, childish thing. A certain amount of pragmatism seemed to govern her actions.

And Tim stomped in the puddle next, tentativeness evaporating fast as Cass kick-splashed him.

“Okay, it’s on,” Tim declared, and his two teenage kids were kicking water at each other like four year olds, losing themselves in the moment as they laughed and shouted at each other, running around the lot to find bigger puddles.

Some parents might worry about dirt stains, or that their children weren’t being ‘mature enough.’ That someone would see and it would be so embarrassing—a stain on their parenting reputation.

Bruce couldn’t have been happier, even if they were supposed to be headed to the corner mart. It was open for hours more. Let his kids who were forced to forgo being kids play.

They came back laughing, sopping wet and just loose-limbed, relaxed. Tim almost started being embarrassed at the display, but Cass threw her arms around his shoulders, squeezing tight as she grinned at Bruce.

He smiled back. He must communicated well how he felt about it, because the beginnings of tension dropped from Tim’s posture, and he grinned too.

“The air conditioning should help dry you off,” Bruce said, a smile still on his face. “If you want to keep splashing, though, I can meet you back here with groceries.”

Cass’s eyes seemed to twinkle as she looked back at Tim. He hesitated, but then nodded.

“Enjoy the puddles,” Bruce said, a light feeling in his chest.

A while later, he would be back at home with soup and drying clothes and children curled under the biggest comforter they had.

And he would feel successful—for at least that period.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been here. Twin and I fucking loved rain in warm weather. I kinda wish there was such rain to be in today, that's a delightful thing.


	58. A Totally Balanced Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette decides to help Roy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fluff family stuff, I s'pose?

“Yo, Roy!”

The voice was loud and chirpy, like it tended to be. Just like Bette tended to be.

And Bruce knew she was trying her best to get Roy pumped up when she used words like that. He could hear shuffling upstairs from where he was, the creak of the floor as he sat in his easychair and read through the current fostercare guidelines.

They updated them every so often. He couldn’t afford to be behind on that.

Whatever Bette was doing, it sounded like it was succeeding—Roy appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a touch groggy and wearing a blanket like a cape, but still awake and walking. He’d been doing a lot better lately, but had a tendency to lapse back into being severely depressed.

Bette appeared not a second later, leaping past him with pep. Her hair was in a bouncy ponytail, and she said, “Are you ready to selfcare today?!”

And Bruce almost snorted from where he was, managing to hold it in in time. He didn’t mean to laugh, but it was certainly a unique approach—and proof that Bette had been reading the materials sent home with her from her therapist.

Roy nodded, an almost sigh slipping out of his mouth.

“Physical needs first—you already took a piss, and a shower within two days of now, so we’re good on that, but you need to eat! And eat good!” Bette was obviously trying to be pumped enough for both of them.

Roy rubbed at his face. “Bette, I’m tired—“

“Cause you totally haven’t eaten, Roy—cept like, that weird coffee-oatmeal mash that Tim makes, and yech, okay? You need fruits and veggies and protein and shit! God, how do you expect to get back to fighting crime? Come on, bow arms or whatever need shit tons of muscle, right?”

Roy let out another sigh. “I like coffmeal.”

Bette let out a sigh that sounded like, ‘Savages’ and tugged Roy towards the kitchen by his right pointer finger. “Come on! I totally made the best breakfast, and like, there’s no one else to eat it if you don’t!”

That explained the smells coming from the kitchen and the general clanging of earlier.

Roy followed her, holding his blanket with one hand. Bette got him seated at the dining table, his chair creaking loudly, and scurried to the kitchen.

She seemed to be excited for real, Bruce realized, not just keeping up a persona. Kind of. He wasn’t certain how much of the pep and chirpiness was really Bette and how much was a persona melded into her from childhood.

She reappeared with a tray (the one that Cass accidentally stole from McDonald’s) loaded with food—what appeared to be banana pancakes, some sort of smoothie, fried lunch meat, and a cup of milk. “Ta da! Don’t say I never did anything nice for you, kay?”

Roy seemed reluctant, and Bruce knew he’d been struggling with eating and other basic care—hell, the pounds he’d dropped over the past months had Bruce very concerned.

To his immense relief, Roy picked up his fork, and started eating.

And he ate a full meal that morning, fruit and all.

Bette cleared his dishes with gusto—and then informed Tim, as he walked in, “Hey, there’s a shitload of dishes for you to wash, Timmo.”

The ensuing argument was fairly typical, and Bruce listened with a shake of his head, ready to intervene if necessary.

At least Roy had eaten. And Bruce could tell by the way he came over and sat on the couch not far from him that the redheaded teen was doing better today, as he gave an almost smile at Bruce. Almost embarrassed.

Bruce smiled back, nodding at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this one came out all right. I'm kinda still adjusting to this keyboard and tablet--though I may have my netbook back by the end of this day. :)


	59. Staying Buried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason shows up again, not long after assaulting Tim and Bette. Bruce...isn't sure how to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major downer chapter alert! Poor Jay.

It was too long before Bruce saw Jason again, after what could only be termed his resurrection.

Jason had a paler face than before, lips chapped, skinnier, it felt like. His whole body seemed like a curled fist, but a weak, bony one that had been held too long.

He wasn’t wearing the hood at the moment, but still a red mask—only over the eyes, curiously like Green Arrow or other ‘superheroes’. Bruce would bet that if he could see his eyes, they would not only have the green glow, but dark bags.

The boy was crouching over the edge of the building, and Bruce might have reacted defensively if it weren’t only him—Jason was clearly not targetting his other children at the moment. In fact, while he looked wary, it was a lot more like the Jason he’d met in that alley all those years ago.

“Jason,” Bruce said, more cautiously than he wanted to. He wanted to seize him, drag him home, wrap him up in a blanket, and get food in him. He still had anger rolling in his gut when he looked at Tim and Bette, when Tim woke up of late panicking, when Bette got confrontational with the others, but he couldn’t hate Jason. He was his son.

Jason tilted his head a little, seeming to swallow hard. “Bruce,” he returned, still watching from his safe vantage point.

Bruce would have thought he was seeing a ghost had he not seen him a week ago—a week and two days, actually, an anxiety and stress riddled week and two days. He swallowed hard as a painful feeling seemed to swell up his throat. “Jason. Are you…”

He didn’t know what to ask. 

“I’m alive,” Jason said, his answer very much a safe response to a question he wasn’t sure of. The sound of the roof crunching a little under his feet, it being short and one of those rough-textured kind of roofs, felt too loud.

Bruce tried. “I would never replace you. T…” It was almost painful to even talk about the son that Jason had beaten, had sent into a wordless terror. He swallowed hard again, feeling like he might choke. “Tim needed me. Ms. Walker asked me to take him in. I…I just wanted to sleep.”

It sounded like a stupid statement…but the gravity of the words didn’t seem lost on Jason.

Jason shifted again. Bruce was starting to recall how Jason moved, what his body language meant—and he could have laughed out loud, because it wasn’t funny, but this was the shift he tended to make when he did something wrong but couldn’t admit it. The most vivid memory coming to mind being him as a small child taking an entire sack of cookies and eating it before Dick and Babs could have it for their sleepover.

“I’m…tell Tim to get better.” It was paltry, and from anyone else, Bruce might have been furious. But he could see how hard it was to say.

“Please come home,” Bruce said, words like bark in his throat.

Jason stood up. “…I can’t do that. I’m, you know…I’m the fucking street rat they always said I was. I was always going to backfire on you.”

“No,” and Bruce said it with enough force that he startled even himself, “You are not. And you don’t have to. I love you, and that doesn’t change even when it’s painful—“

“No, fuck that! It’s—it’s—you can’t, okay?!” Jason’s voice was almost hysterical, loud and boots crunching loudly as he moved on the roof. “I have done horrible things—“ he cut Bruce off, “Not just Tim and Bette, okay? What do you think the League wanted me for, just to get back at you?!”

Bruce’s stomach felt like it had been sharply pulled into a knot. “I don’t care what you’ve done, Jason. We’ve all done things that are horrible. You were manipulated and traumatized—“

“No, okay? No! You don’t get it! Talia’s the only one who…who actually…” His voice trailed off painfully, and his body seemed to curl in just a bit. “Just, fuck this. I can’t trust anyone. They all lie. Sooner or later.”

“Jason—“

“Not you, B. But, I’ve ruined that. You can never look at me the fucking same way again, right?” Jason’s voice was like a twisting ribbon, pained, but soft. “Some things should stay buried.”

And he turned to run.

“Jason! Jason, come back!” Bruce didn’t entirely mean to—he didn’t want to scare Jason away. But he was chasing after him, heart beating like a frantic bird against a cage, calling out for him, desperate for his son to _come home_ \--

And he was too late. As always.

Because Jason was already gone without a trace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I may explore Tim and Bette's reactions in a titch.
> 
> Also, that whole rejecting yourself for your family? A thing. Not a thing I know as well, but for someone like Jason...he would feel like he had irrevocably ruined his having a family. His being allowed to be there, even if not explicitly said so. Also, he's dealing with a lot of shit, including finding out his view of reality had been manipulated, which is never easy.
> 
> :(
> 
> From my own experience, when someone you love hurts someone else you love, it's difficult to deal with. In my case, there was very much hatred--but Bruce's case is different. Very complex as well, but different. He knows in his head that Jason would not do this if he were of a sound mind--but he also hates his children being hurt, and he loves them as much as Jason and that's a difficult thing to reconcile. I feel like he would be able to be more mature with it than I was.


	60. Made to be Ferocious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim fights, and Bruce can't help but think what a difference a couple years make.

The first time that Bruce could truly describe Tim as ferocious in a fight was one that would stick with him forever.

And not in the way that it would haunt him, leave a mark on him forever.

No, this was a fond memory.

“Come on, fairy boy, you scared a’hitting me? Come on, just try it.” A thug was taunting Tim, young Robin and still occasionally shaky, nervous. 

Tim was indeed small, no matter how much Bruce tried to get him eating and such. But he had his fists up, a slight indecision in his posture.

It was a group of men who had been harassing a pair of teenage girls. Said girls were watching, frayed nerves making what would probably normally be fairly confident posture seem timid, unsure. The one seemed to tug at the edge of her skirt subconsciously, and the other seemed torn between being angry and being near crying.

Bruce liked to stop it with a threat of what would happen rather than outright violence, if he could. He watched just a bit anxiously, the voice inside him insistently saying, ‘But what if he loses—what if he loses?’

He trusted Tim. He would give him the chance.

“Come on, you tiny fag,” the man sneered, a slight case of fluorosis evident in his mottled teeth, “Unless you’d rather get on your knees for me—“

Bruce was pretty sure he would have seriously hurt the man if Tim hadn’t struck him then. Hadn’t nailed him in the chest, knocking the breath out of him, and then hooked behind his foot and threw him, flipping him over his hip like he wasn’t almost twice his size, the fury in his eyes evident.

He slammed a foot onto the wheezing man’s chest, and said, “How about you get on your back for me?”

And they were going to talk about that later, a kid his age should not be saying things like that, but Bruce’s chest seemed to fill with both relief and pride as the man looked up at Tim bug eyed.

“Fucking freaks,” one of the other men said, and the others muttered things about ‘fucking ninja shit’ and such, taking the opportunity to leave. The man wriggled out from under Tim’s boot, and he ran, trying to make it look like he wasn’t.

“You’re safe now,” Tim promised the teens, and said, suddenly awkward, “Do you want us to walk you home?”

The one girl laughed a little, and said, “Sure, you crazy ninja motherfucker.”

The other looked apprehensively at Batman, like he didn’t know what curse words were. He nodded to Tim. Their symbols were well enough known that people in their area knew they could trust them.

Tim beamed behind his mask, his eye-goggles seeming to glint even in the dusky light. “Uh, okay. Let’s do that.”

And he walked off into the night, that confidence in his step that made Bruce smile to himself. He shadowed a little, keeping his distance, but he couldn’t have been prouder. 

Tim came back with the exciting news that ‘her name was Tam, and she’s really nice, she even showed me her designs for her computer game!’ and Bruce smiled and nodded, glad to hear about Tim being so social.

So excited and open.

It did set him into a frenzied obsession of trying to make his own video game for a while there, but he eventually abandoned that project, instead focusing on other aspects of code.

Still, his and Babs’ designs for a medieval warrior woman was quite impressive.

And Bruce knew that Tim had developed so far beyond that scared, subdued child he had met a couple years back.

And he knew he had gotten past the deadened, grief stricken man he had been then too. Gotten back to living. Never forgetting, but not staying there either.

Yes, a ferocious Tim, an engaged Tim, was who the boy truly was.

And this was who Bruce was supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small drabble idea, I guess. It's been rocky, but now I have my own internet and I'm good!


	61. Grillable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Bette bond over similarly horrible parenting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This discusses abuse a bit!

Bruce hadn’t meant to hear the conversation between Tim and Bette. He had simply come back in from outside where he’d been making water balloons, the Fourth of July celebration soon to get into full swing. Dick was already out there with Roy, burgers and other grillables stacked and pink and waiting as the pair tried to wow Cass with the ‘weird’ bratwurst that Bette had procured.

Not every day you had bratwurst with things like vegetables and cheese inside them, after all.

Bette was getting along more with Tim every day, and suddenly, so suddenly, as Bruce heard their conversation, he knew why.

“…cause like, god, everyone knows that you can change yourself instantly, at will, right? I could totally change my sexuality, personality, body type, and shit at the drop of a hat!”

“Just put in effort and you’ll be able to do physically impossible things like get instantly better from a cold or know how to speak French to impress my friends,” Tim agreed, snorting.

“I dunno, Tim, I think we don’t have psychic powers like all other perfect, good kids,” Bette said, “I wouldn’t have to take away your door if you didn’t act out so much on the internet!”

She started giggling uproariously. Tim’s voice added in,

“Honey, I’m busy nursing my hurt ego right now, I can’t take you to get that checked out—“

“Why does no one ever say they love me anymore??”

“I do so much for everyone and you treat me like I’m your maid, disregarding the fact ‘maid’ implies I do any kind of housework!”

“I hate the food you’re suggesting, but I’m not gonna say so and instead I’m gonna make you guess until the food you claim you want is what I actually want!”

“So disappointing, getting a B while suffering from a concussion!”

“Is that a bc patch? ‘No, it’s a teddy bear sticker—‘ Don’t lie to my face!”

They were laughing. Almost uproariously so. Bruce was tempted to peer into the living room to see them, knowing it had been enough time that Bette had shed a lot of toxic attitudes and Tim had warmed up to her.

“God, Tim, with parents like ours, how the hell did we turn out so horrible? We don’t even call!”

Bruce hadn’t heard Bette laugh so genuinely very often; he didn’t hear Tim laugh that recklessly much even now.

It made sense, he thought. They did have similarities in upbringing—basic needs all met, such as food, clothes, hygiene, all that—but the love was disordered at best.

And apparently their parents had some of their parenting styles in common.

Bruce smiled, and stepped out, as he heard Bette giggle at Tim’s apparent rendition of his mother being a martyr for her adoring audience.

Dick was watching a sausage with spinach in sizzle on the grill when he came out, ready to start flipping various grillables. Roy was leaning with his elbows on the plastic table (a dangerous thing to do) and Cass was quietly suggesting grilling various vegetables on the grill as well.

Bruce smiled at his brood, and nodded to Cass. “I’m pretty sure we have some zucchini we can try. I’ll get it in a bit.”

This encouraged Cass, and soon enough, she was proposing all kinds of foods to grill, much to the amusement of the boys.

It soon became clear she was messing with them when she proposed grilling cheese spray.

Bette and Tim appeared not long after that, apparently at ease and bearing all the paper plates and disposable cutlery one could expect a pair of teens to carry. 

That Fourth of July went very well, despite Dick breaking the ancient kiddie pool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You really get a connection when you realize this person also grew up with a narcissist parent. :P No one else quite gets it.


	62. Unapologetically Not Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian is very different from Bruce's other kids, and Bruce isn't certain the boy has a conscience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda downer chapter. You've been warned.

How do you deal with a kid who just doesn’t get a moral truth?

Bruce was having difficulty answering this question.

“I don’t have to apologize,” Damian said for the umpteenth time, arms crossed over his chest. It wasn’t even all that overtly aggressive, more of a statement.

“Damian, you hurt Bette. If you hurt someone, intentionally or not, you should apologize,” Bruce responded, wondering how the hell to word it so that Damian would _get it._

He still didn’t. “Why?”

“Because you hurt her.”

“She isn’t even bruised or bleeding—I didn’t lay a finger.”

Bruce sighed. “Damian, you hurt her feelings.”

“I only said she was a whore.” He said it like it was simply the truth or not a big deal.

Bruce swallowed down the anger, still remembering Bette’s red-streaked face—half anger, half pain. Because even if she did sleep with a lot of people, he knew that it would not justify the way Damian had attacked her for daring to disagree with him in his stealing Tim’s oatmeal.

A small matter had ballooned, as it often did with Damian.

Bruce was concerned in a way that he wasn’t with the others. Even Jason, who a lot of people presumed would be a psychopath or something, had a strong sense of morality and felt guilt over hurting people. Bette, who had started out slightly skewed, ended up having a healthier sense of right and wrong, and she was really only messed up on a few issues, not lacking altogether.

Cass, Tim, and Dick had pretty much always had a sense of morality.

Roy only pretended he didn’t care sometimes.

Damian…just didn’t seem to have a concept of a conscience. Bruce hoped he was wrong and he just didn’t understand yet how Damian’s mind worked, but Damian seemed to only understand that someone hurting him was not okay—and not because it was morally wrong, but because it made him angry.

“Damian, she is not a whore, and it’s not appropriate to call anyone that. Do you understand?” Bruce sighed at the impassive look on Damian’s face. 

“She’s had a lot of sex. That is the definition.” Damian said this stubbornly, as if he hadn’t said it with the intention to hurt.

Bruce had been there. He certainly had.

“Damian, you hurt her. You know she was abused, and you knew that would hurt her. If you do something wrong, you have to make up for it, right?”

Damian snorted. “I don’t have to.”

Bruce dragged his hand through his hair. His brain was tiredly searching for a way to get through to his son, to get him to see that harming his siblings was not okay.

He’d certainly done a record amount of that.

Well…Jason did have a lot to live up to in that regard, to be fair. 

“Damian…do you know the Golden Rule?”

“I don’t have to. It’s not relevant.” Damian turned to go, a stubborn look on his face saying he was probably familiar with said rule—and found it to be a crock of shit.

“Please, Damian—don’t you care at all about hurting her? She’s helped you before—she’s the one who got you the sock monkey, who rode with you to your dentist appointment, who’s done any number of things for you—“

“So?”

It was impossible.

Bruce felt like conceding defeat. He sank into his chair, saying, “We’ll talk about this later, Damian. Please, just…maybe train outside for a bit, in the back.”

He had to properly console Bette, restrain Tim, and try, so goddamn hard, to figure out how to help his son.

Damian headed out without another word. The sound of his practice sword hitting the dummy in the back reached Bruce’s ears.

He just didn’t know what to do with Damian. He was at a loss.

He saw Dick hanging in the doorway, a sympathetic look in his eyes. “You want me to try?”

Dick was king of empathy, of feelings. But Bruce shook his head. “Give him some space, for now—some time to think over it.”

He’d figure this out. He’d reach Damian somehow.

He just didn’t know how yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a thing. My baby bro is going through a milder phase of this, and I am very worried for him. 
> 
> For baby bro, apologies are a humiliation tactic you're forced into--almost no one besides me and autistic sis will apologize to him for hurting him or so on. So, he generally sees no need to apologize and sees it as something bad for him.
> 
> :(
> 
> Damian would certainly not see apologies as a warm, well-intentioned thing. It is a thing weak people are forced to do. Also, despite being in a shit ton of emotional pain, he doesn't completely register inflicting it as a horrible thing to do, merely a tool.


	63. Orphans Number Seven and Eight: Harper and Cullen Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harper and Cullen end up in Bruce's life. He's never taken in siblings before.

Harper and Cullen Row were different from any of the other kids that Bruce had taken in.

For one, they were a sibling pair. 

For another—every child was proving to be very unique. As could be expected of children.

Harper was a ball of anger—mostly defensive. She had partly buzzed blue and purple hair, multiple facial piercings, and a scowl that said, ‘One false move and I’ll fuck you up.’

Her brother had a similar haircut, interestingly—but he was extremely different. Cullen was afraid, defeated. Seemingly forced into a perpetual feeling of helplessness. He was one step behind his sister, fourteen to her sixteen and a few inches shorter, though he would probably outgrow her.

Ms. Walker had told him over the phone that the chances of them getting a home was difficult enough as teenagers—getting one _together_ would be a miracle. And apparently, he was seen as a miracle worker by Ms. Walker.

She was looking across at him, and by now, she had a couple thin streaks of gray in her hair. Her eyes were soft, somehow not hardened after all this time around the worst cases of child abuse the city had to offer, and she was saying, “Harper and Cullen are currently enrolled at East Gotham High—Cullen is a freshman, and Harper is a junior. We’ve also set up counseling appointments for both of them—the scheduling is flexible, you can change it if you need to.”

“I’m not talking to a weird dude with an Oedipus complex obsession, okay?” Harper snapped suddenly, “And no one’s talking to my brother.”

Bruce blinked. “I believe you’ll be talking to a woman counselor, Harper, and your and Cullen’s counselors are trained to talk to you with compassion and treat you with dignity—“

“Yeah right!” Harper snapped back, “Nothing’s wrong with my brother and no one’s fucking talking to him!”

Bruce had read in the file that she was extremely protective of Cullen. Not surprising, given that they’d been living unsupervised as essentially runaways for about eight months. Yes, she’d managed a dingy one room apartment in the worst part of town, so they weren’t homeless, but still scraping by—up until the point Cullen had gotten so sick that she’d been forced to take him to the free clinic.

An ER trip for a severe infection and a CPS intervention later, here they were.

Cullen had the yellowed shadows of bruises on his face, and probably elsewhere. His eyes lacked light, and he looked like he might shrink behind Harper.

Bruce got the sense this was a recent trauma and this was not who Cullen was, not truly.

“Harper, no one will hurt your brother. I won’t allow it,” Bruce said gravely.

He got the feeling the other kids were spying. Tim and Damian had a penchant for eavesdropping, and it was one Bruce had yet to get them to drop.

Cass might be home. She was often gone with her competitions—being a world class martial artist did that. He knew she was working very hard to help cover Bette’s college costs as well, working in his dojo and at the yoga studio in the nicer part of their part of Gotham. She was also working on catching up education wise, though what she planned on doing with that was anyone’s guess.

“Harper, no one is going to hurt Cullen. We only want to help him and you—“ Bruce’s words were cut off.

Harper’s angry sneer was evident. “Oh yeah? Yeah? You’re gonna help him? Like last time?”

Ms. Walker frowned. “Harper, what are you talking about?”

“Yeah, like you don’t know. You _assholes_ came in, had the fucking gall to tell us that we were the disordered ones cause my bro likes dudes and you assumed I’m a lesbian and shit, and hey, Mr. Row, we got a counselor that’ll fix em right up—attitude problems and disordered tendencies and all! Lucky us! So blessed!”

It felt dry and slowly angry, horrified in the pit of Bruce’s on behalf of Harper and Cullen. Bruce had known runaways—hell, Jason had been one. These were the kids who fell through the cracks for bullshit like this.

He could see the look on Ms. Walker’s face, the knowledge that there were indeed bad social workers in her department playing across—but if she got furious about it, she would be furious always for the inadequacies in her system. Most social workers burned out fast—there was a reason Ms. Walker had a solid two decades behind her.

Bruce said, gently, “I understand, Harper, and I promise neither I nor Ms. Walker will target you for your sexualities, or what we presume to be your sexualities. It’s despicable that that even happened, and I’m sorry it did. You will not get that treatment here: we believe you.”

Harper seemed to falter at that, though there was still suspicion on her face. Rather than back down, however, she said, “Good. If I see one step in any other direction, though, Cullen and I are gone. For good. Got it?”

“I understand,” Bruce allowed, not about to let them go back to being runaways, but understanding her need to protect and feel some control over the situation—and by extension for Cullen to feel like at least _she_ had some control, even if he didn’t.

“Where’s my room?” Harper said. He realized she was holding both their duffels, and Cullen’s arms were tucked protectively against his body.

“Tim,” Bruce said, “Can you take Harper and Cullen to their rooms, please?”

There was a reluctant, silent moment where it almost looked like Bruce was insanely talking to an imaginary friend. Then, Tim appeared, that look on his face like, ‘I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just happened to hear you call me.’

He led them up, chattering away trying to cover up his embarrassment at being caught.

Bruce certainly had hope for the pair of them. They would fit right in, he hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! I hope you liked it, I've been eager to put them in for a while now.


	64. Pillow Bob

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass is not used to comfort. Almost at all.
> 
> Which means she embraces the idea of soft things wholeheartedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff chapter! :D Yay Cass and Tim!

Cass hadn’t had much growing up.

This was especially true in terms of material comfort. She adored Bruce’s recliner, the old couch, the various secondhand, juice-stained cushions on the floor.

But what really drove that knowledge home for Bruce was when he discovered she wasn’t using a pillow.

“Where’s your pillow, Cass?” he asked as he looked into the room that had been his, brow crinkling.

Her dark eyes flicked to him, and she just shrugged. She had been there only a short while, and very rarely used words to communicate. She laid down on the mattress, seemingly listening to the springs creak and then looked up at him.

As if saying, ‘This is pretty great. Do I need a pillow?’

And Bruce left to the closet, pulling out the extra pillow he’d gotten recently. It was not a high price item, a fairly inexpensive pillow that was white and fluffy and the case was a little slippery but nowhere near silk. He handed it to Cass as he came back into the room.

“This is for you.”

She took the pillow, and after feeling it experimentally, wrapped her arms around it tightly. Her expression seemed to say, ‘This is _soft_.’ Like that was highly unusual.

Bruce smiled. “It’s yours. Use it as much as you want.”

And did she ever.

Pillow Bob, as Tim helpfully nicknamed it, went everywhere with Cass for almost three weeks solid. If Cass was somewhere, Pillow Bob was nearby—sat on, tucked under an arm, squeezed, or simply hanging out within reaching distance.

Bruce had quickly made himself the mental note to pick up soft clothes and the like for Cass.

The fluffy pants and such seemed to lessen the need for Pillow Bob, and Cass seemed to relax more into the household.

And try to get Tim to wear her fluffy pants, a touch confused when he utterly refused.

It made Bruce nearly laugh out loud, however, when he found that she’d jammed Pillow Bob under Tim’s head as he slept at the breakfast table, up far too late once again.

She just looked at him conspiratorially, and continued eating her cereal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was apparently in my ideas notebook, so I did it, lol. I enjoyed this one.
> 
> And I did a similar thing as a kid when the bro gave me a fleece body pillow for Christmas--or with any majorly soft thing I received, lol.


	65. Decision (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph's pregnancy does not leave her with many options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABORTION DISCUSSION
> 
> This is a very sensitive topic in the chapter, just so you know. I've tried to be nuanced about it.

Stephanie’s pregnancy was one of the hardest things Bruce had dealt with in his kids, barring the fact she wasn’t ‘his’ per se.

He wasn’t going to kid himself into thinking it was hardest on _him_ \--though the first moment had been very much focused on his general horror and nausea.

Steph had told them, in no uncertain terms, that she was pregnant. When Tim stared, face going pale, she felt the need to elaborate.

“You know. Bun in the oven. Eating for two. Turning into a one passenger blimp. All that.”

Tim positively spluttered, and said, “But-but I didn’t mean to, should we have, uh, oh god, how did—“ His eyes were darting in Bruce in confused almost fear.

Stephanie busted out laughing. “Leave it to you to make something like this funny, Tim.” It really wasn’t funny. “Tim, trust me, you’re not the father. I’m over a month along—it’s a parting gift from someone else.”

“Like, holy fuck, let’s go kill the bastard,” Bette said helpfully, and Bruce resisted facepalming. Bette could be a little overzealous at times. 

“We’re not killing anyone,” Bruce said, before that train of thought could go anywhere.

Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Relax, Bette. We just weren’t careful, okay? I just was left holding the bag. And he’s a major dickhole, so I’m not gonna tell him.”

Somehow, that felt uncomfortable in the pit of Bruce’s stomach. He said, a bit uneasily, “Don’t you think he’d want to know if he has a child?”

And it was Steph’s turn to look a touch ill at ease. “…he’s not gonna.”

“Not going to…?” Bruce asked, the answer unclear. Tim’s face was creased in confusion, but Bette’s was of instant understanding—and sympathy.

“I know a place. Doesn’t ask ages or shit like that,” Bette said, and that made it click for Bruce.

And maybe it wasn’t fair, but his stomach seemed to roll violently. He felt ill. 

“You can’t mean that,” Bruce said.

Steph’s eyes widened at him, “Are you serious right now?”

Bette was also looking at him incredulously. “The fuck? What the hell is she supposed to do? You gonna carry the baby, Bruce? Cause like, unless you’re gonna—“

“I don’t mean it like that,” Bruce said, though he was unsure how he meant it exactly. He couldn’t always expound on his feelings about that, that one issue, since it wasn’t something he preferred to think about. It was apparently something he was going to have to.

And he realized he was also feeling some anger. He swallowed it down. “If you do it, you can’t take it back. This is a grave decision.”

“No shit!” Stephanie snapped back, looking somewhat furious. “What, you think I woke up this morning and said, ‘Hey, how about I get my hair done, buy a milkshake, and have an abortion? Sounds like a fun day!’”

Bruce had to concede that. “I…I get that this is a difficult situation, but—“

“Fuck you! You don’t get anything!” Steph shouted back, “Do you have any idea how this fucking feels? Do you have any idea what the fuck—god, what the hell—“

Bruce was quiet. It was difficult to reconcile his feelings here.

Because his feelings weren’t primarily some spiel he adhered to. It was personal.

His mother had been highly encouraged to abort him. And it would have been that easy, as the Kanes and other relatives saw fit to remind her for the short time they kept contact before she was ‘irredeemable.’ 

And they mentioned to him, in the crushing period after his parents’ death, that surely at least his mother would have been all right if she hadn’t had him. Because then she would have been able to leave his father.

It took years to realize that his mother had not been trapped by him, had been ecstatic to have him, that his relatives were assholes.

Especially after the horrific experience that could be foster care.

He said, softly, “Are you sure this is for the best? For everyone involved?”

Steph nodded, jaw tight, eyes just a touch glassy. “Yeah, I’m sure. They’d kill me.”

And Bruce, even though it hurt him, even though it was painful to think about, was going to let it go. It was horrific, but he knew Stephanie was right. This was a no win situation—he couldn’t get her out to protect her, and her father would likely hurt her, a lot, over this. Might even be able to trap her in his home longer if she had the baby.

Tim had other thoughts, Bruce realized, as the boy looked at him in relative horror. “No! You can’t do that, that’s murder!”

Steph’s mouth fell open.

“Yeah? Yeah, Tim? When you’re pregnant, you get a say!” Bette snapped at Tim.

Tim looked like he was going to start crying, though, and that anger was easily directed towards Bette. “What if your parents had aborted you? Would you want that, just cause they changed their minds or—or something?”

“That would be fucking awesome!” Bette snapped back, “And hey, if we were lucky, they’d’a aborted all of us instead of being shitty-ass parents!”

Tim’s face screwed up, all of his fourteen years looking heavy on him, and he shoved Bette backwards—and then ran for the stairs, a stuttered, “F-Fuck you!” escaping from him.

Bette looked momentarily stunned—and then furious. “You little piece of shit, you get back here and fight like a man, goddamnit, Tim!”

Bruce blocked her. “We’re all going to have tea now and cool down. Okay? We’re going to calm down before we talk about this any more.”

“That little fuckass shoved me! Like, I’m gonna kill him!” Bette seethed.

Steph looked devastated. It made sense, given how Tim was reacting and how hard the situation was even without that.

Bruce managed to herd both girls over to the table, wishing Cass and Dick were home. Hell, even Roy might lend a cooler head in this instance. It was more than difficult to handle this on his own. 

But handle it on his own he would have to, as the girls both slowly sipped their tea.

He already knew there was no chance Mrs. Brown could be prevailed upon to do anything helpful. She was extremely bitter and mostly spent her time being bitter while doing minimal household chores, watching TV, and ignoring her life.

She always sided with Steph’s father. Steph could not name a time she hadn’t.

And Steph’s father already had plenty to say about her being a slut. Yes, Steph was sexually active, as was clear by the pregnancy and her explanation of it, but it was hardly a fair characterization. The man was literally a criminal who was complicit in people’s deaths. He had no room to be a judge here.

A baby, a pregnancy, would give him the fuel he needed.

And there was little chance of Steph hiding it for the full nine months. Health insurance being what it was, having a baby without her parents’ insurance was a cost none of them could cover. And that was just the cost of giving birth, not even counting related medical costs and the costs of caring for a baby.

Bruce tentatively put forward adoption as a solution to the cost, but Steph pressed her lips together tightly, looking down towards her cup of tea.

“Like, there’s still the baby bump, Bruce, plus, like, don’t her parents have to be on board?” Bette put in. She was still against even considering keeping the baby in any fashion, but she seemed willing to hear Bruce. Willing enough.

Probably only because Steph was.

It was like a rock in Bruce’s stomach. He didn’t want Steph to be put through this. He knew, no matter what, this was going to be extremely hard on her.

Whatever choice they-- _she_ \--made today, whatever conclusion they were able to reach, it was going to be difficult. 

And this made Bruce’s gut churn. Because there shouldn’t be such impossible odds should she want to keep the baby. There shouldn’t be shame and fear of harm and all the messed up shit that went with this.

She shouldn’t have to be quietly crying into her tea.

Bruce moved from his seat at that, carefully offering a hug. She took it, face on his shirt and getting it damp.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was small, and it shocked Bruce, because he’d never thought she gave a damn what he really thought or about his approval or so on. And he thought he was going to cry too, but he held it in.

“It’s…I’m not mad. You don’t have to be sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened and that it’s like this, and I wish I could fix it.”

Steph laughed a little, a wet sound. “Yeah, me too. We have so much in common.”

She felt strangely small in his arms, and it made Bruce angry. Protective, he supposed. There was little he could really do, though.

Even threatening her father as Batman would undoubtedly backfire, as his encounters with him only seemed to fuel his abusive behavior.

And he couldn’t kill him. He couldn’t do something like that, even if right then, he wanted to.

If it were only as simple as them kicking Steph out for being pregnant, she could come here. She could live with them and be safe. But they wouldn’t. Her parents made every attempt to keep her, to cage her in. He didn’t doubt that it would be horrible on Steph, but there was no easy way out in this situation.

Tim came down around the time they were back to sipping their tea, most of it gone and kind of lukewarm. His eyes were red, and he was looking down at the floor.

Bruce put a hand on Bette as she started to stand, having a feeling that Tim had something to say and it would best not be interrupted to fight about shoving. They could talk about it after, as that was still not acceptable, though.

“I…” Tim bit his lip, eyes flicking up to Stephanie, and then back down. He scrubbed at his face with his wrist, and then suddenly, it looked like he was starting to cry again. The reasons seemed to be complex, and he choked out, “I gotta go back upstairs!” and ran for the safety of his room.

“Asshat,” Bette murmured.

Bruce would talk to him after. And Bette after. And probably Dick, Roy, and Cass too.

He looked to Steph. “If you want to stay the night, if you can, you can. Cass will be back soon, and the three of you can watch movies tonight. Tomorrow…tomorrow, we’ll figure this out. It’s getting kind of late.”

Steph nodded. Bette hugged her.

This was going to be a long night, Bruce had no doubt, even if only his doubts and concerns and regrets plagued his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. My own views on this are very different in general, and I don't know that I really want to expound there, so.
> 
> Bruce has strong feelings about it due to his past and sense of justice, cause that is a thing people say about generalized abused and orphaned and poor children a lot and that hurts.
> 
> Bette's parents were entirely for 'pro-choice' causes, and Bette has mixed feelings about even being born, which will be gotten in to in the next chapter.
> 
> Tim's parents were the exact opposite--hardline 'pro-life.' In essence, their parents are the bad people of such movements, I suppose, rather than accurately representing either. Tim's feelings will be gotten into, and why he's reacting the way he is.
> 
> Steph's feelings are fairly apparent, I believe.
> 
> I feel like the comics had an 'After School Special' kinda flavor in regards to Steph's pregnancy in a lot of ways. I also made some major changes, obviously, to home life and shit, but yeah. I felt it fit better and made more sense for someone to do something like crime-fight? Dunno, man.
> 
> I know Stephanie has a very different take in the comics, bout twenty years back. But I think that's partly a product of the times--a girl who legit thought of abortion as an option in those times was 'bad' no matter what. Certainly, the groups I've belonged to would have been in an uproar despite never having heard of her before such a thing. Hell, when it came up in the comic, I don't think they even used the word 'abortion' when talking about it for like three seconds for her to assert herself as a 'good girl who would never consider it.'
> 
> I dunno. :I Part 2 should be along within a day or two.


	66. Decision (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part two of three--Steph's pregnancy elicits strong feelings from Tim. Bruce hopes he can cool the emotions in the house enough to have an honest, levelheaded discussion.
> 
> Steph deserves that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABORTION DISCUSSION

It was one of those mornings where you didn’t want to get up. Bruce had been through many of those, and maybe (probably, definitely) worse ones than this, but as the gray morning streaked through the living room window, he got out of the chair with a creak, returning it to upright position.

Amazingly, Tim was up first, shuffling about the kitchen with a white, dingy mug clutched in hand. He was already brewing a pot of coffee by the time Bruce got in there.

His blue eyes, a touch dark and definitely still tired, darted to Bruce as he got in there, scuffing the floor with his stocking toe. “Morning,” he said quietly, eyes pointed down at the linoleum.

Bruce nodded back, yawning. “Morning.”

“The girls aren’t up. Neither are Dick or Roy.” Tim said this kind of flatly. His eyes were on the coffee machine, an ancient white one with over a decade of coffee stains built up. It was slowly percolating, the sound the loudest in the small kitchen.

Cass, Dick, and Roy had gotten back sometime that night. They were out patrolling, protecting people and fighting violent criminals. Less violent, they were more likely to talk down or so on.

He’d heard the creak of the back door, the clomping noises of their combat boots, the sounds of them removing thick jackets and masks and chatting a little—Dick talked the most out of that group, no doubt there.

He’d let them go to bed. Some of them should get a good night’s rest, and they definitely deserved it after such a long night. 

“How are you doing?” Bruce asked first, feeling it out. He knew everyone who knew was probably very tense. 

Tim’s tired blue eyes flashed up to him, guilt there, but something horrifically sad there too. “I need coffee. And maybe tylenol.”

Bruce got him some. He started up the pot for oatmeal, intending to make enough for everyone who would be getting up in a bit. He hoped to talk to Tim before anyone else came down, as tired as he was. They needed to talk about this.

“You know shoving Bette wasn’t okay?”

Tim’s shoulders tightened, and he wordlessly poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Tim. I need you to understand that was wrong.”

“She’s wrong,” Tim murmured, almost stubbornly, but he wouldn’t look at Bruce. He was just staring down at his mug, the steam rising.

“Tim, you do not lay hands on your sister,” Bruce said, not about to let this go. “What is the rule about—“

“Fighting is only in defense and in direct proportion or some shit, _I know_ ,” Tim snapped testily. He was holding the mug tightly, seemed to be glaring at it with the way his head dipped.

Well. He did know the rule. There was at least that.

“Tim, this isn’t easy for anyone, least of all Stephanie. You seem to have very strong feelings about this—“

Bruce was shocked when Tim turned around sharply, mug still held tightly in his hand, ignoring its sloshing. “ _Shouldn’t everyone?_ Bruce, it’s murder, you have to know that! How can you stand there and nod along and let her do it?”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Bruce said, taking care to use an understanding voice, “I don’t like it either.”

“As long as you’re uncomfortable, it’s fine, then? Just like you’re uncomfortable about the way they abuse her, because that fixes it, right?” Tim’s voice was heated, his hands were shaking.

And that was hardly fair to say. Bruce let out a deep breath through his nose, and said, “You know I want to get her out, Tim, but there’s only so much I can do. Her parents aren’t going to be convicted based on anything, almost, given the level of corruption.”

“So just kill the baby? You told me two wrongs don’t make a right—it’s a bandaid and it’s _wrong_ ,” Tim said, eyes intense with fury and anguish and other emotions that weren’t easy to place.

Bruce sighed. He knew Tim was right, somewhat, about it being a bandaid—a temporary fix at best. Because, yes, Steph not being pregnant would protect her from abuse for being pregnant—but it wouldn’t solve the abuse, wouldn’t rescue her, wouldn’t improve what it was now. 

“Tim, I’m sorry. I can’t fix this.”

“You should at least be trying!” Tim’s hands jerked violently, sloshing coffee again. That was about when Bruce realized that his hands probably weren’t just shaking with rage—they were also an angry red, scalded by his coffee.

He came over quietly, eased the coffee cup out of Tim’s hands, and put said hands under the cold water of the sink.

“It doesn’t hurt,” Tim insisted, “I’m okay. I’m just fine!”

“Please keep your hands under the cold water,” Bruce said, seeing Tim wince as the pain seemed to catch up to him.

Tim stared down at his hands, held under the water. His eyes were heavy, and finally, he said, “It’s the worst thing you can do to someone. Erase them before they even get to _do_ anything.”

Bruce was quiet. He considered what Tim was saying, and replied, “What did your parents have to say about abortion?”

Tim’s face crinkled a little. The water trickled slowly down one of his arms, wetting his sleeve with a gradually widening wet spot. “They said it was evil. But…they were at least right on that one.”

He chewed on his lip a little, and then murmured, “They—my mom—always said I was so lucky they knew abortion was evil. Cause, you know, she knew I was…that I wasn’t so great about six months in. Legal then, I think.”

And Bruce could feel a small fire burning in his chest. Anger, but not necessarily surprise, that Janet Drake would tell her son such a thing. He let go of Tim’s wrists, and wrapped his arms around his son. “Oh, Tim…”

What did one even say to that? He could feel Tim’s head drop against his chest. 

“I’m glad you’re here. You know that?” Bruce said softly, and Tim pressed closer, nodding.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.”

Bruce brushed down Tim’s hair, wondering how the hell to handle all this. To protect his kids. 

They were there for a short while, until there was stirring upstairs. Bruce stepped back, brushing Tim’s hair back from his face, looking him in the eyes. “I know this is painful. It’s painful for me too. But you can’t hurt people because you’re in pain, and you know that. You need to talk or find other ways.”

“I know.” Tim’s face was full of shame. “I’m gonna talk to Bette, and apologize.”

“Good.” 

It was about then that Cass came down, grabbed a mug, filled it with hot water from the faucet and cocoa powder, and headed back towards the stairs. 

“Cass?” Bruce asked, and her eyes flicked to him.

“You have Tim. I have them,” Cass said, and headed up the stairs.

And Bruce could only assume that this meant that Steph and Bette were upset too, and awake. And Cass always had a major caregiver kind of streak when she could see that ‘her people’ were upset. 

Bruce patted Tim on the shoulder, saying, “Keep the oatmeal going, please. We’re all going to want breakfast.”

Tim nodded, and Bruce headed up the stairs, intending to talk to Roy and Dick. The redhead was curled onto his side, as he often was, under a single sheet. Roy did tend towards being too warm. And Dick, on the other hand, sprawled on his bed, arm hanging off of the top bunk lazily.

Bruce patted the arm, and nudged Roy awake. “Sorry to wake you both. I know it was a long night.”

Dick was already looking at him quizzically, catching the serious tone.

Roy’s eyes seemed to almost flare—with fear he was trying to hide. “I can pack, I, uh—“

“I’m not kicking you out, Roy, you’re welcome here as long as you want to be here,” Bruce said patiently, knowing that this happened every so often. That he expected rejection so easily was a part of his past and his depression.

Roy relaxed, slumping a little and rubbing at his face. “What’s up, then?”

Bruce didn’t know how to say it delicately. “Stephanie is pregnant, and we need to talk downstairs.”

Dick’s eyebrows shot up. “…oh. Oh. Good god.”

Bruce had cleared telling them with Stephanie the night before. He didn’t want her to feel like she was forced to allow her privacy to be invaded. She felt vulnerable enough without him spreading the information without her permission.

Roy had a look on his face—half sad, half tired. Like he’d seen it before, and it didn’t end well.

“Yeah,” Bruce agreed with Dick softly. “Tim is finishing the oatmeal. We’ll eat in about five minutes, and then figure it out.”

Dick nodded, and headed over to make sure Roy stayed awake.

Bruce headed over to the girls’ room, seeing Cass, Steph, and Bette huddled together in the fleece blankets he’d gotten on sale the spring before. Bette was currently holding the mug of hot cocoa, but it looked empty.

“Are you ready to talk?”

Steph nodded, and they headed for downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter focuses on Tim, not cause guys are the most important when it comes to pregnancy shit, but honestly cause Tim kinda is me growing up and that stretched out longer than I thought it would. DX
> 
> When you grow up crazy Conservative, this is a thing, as I can attest to. The strong feelings regarding it make sense when you consider that they legit think it is murder--when that is the case. Some people just use it as a thing.
> 
> Not to say there aren't honest to god good reasons to be pro-life or against abortion, cause, hey, circumstances vary world wide and very few issues are clearcut. 
> 
> Anywho. We'll hear more from Bette the next chapter and Steph, of course, since she is the one who is mainly dealing with this. Consider this a kind of prologue to that.
> 
> And yeah, my good Catholic mum used this one on us a few times. 'Lucky you we're pro-life!' Which is fucking awful, coming from any parent of any background, honestly.
> 
> (I did not intend for this to be a three parter at all. Good god. I am sorry.)


	67. Decision (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette's difficulties are addressed.
> 
> Bruce has to make a decision, one he feels he should not have been avoiding this whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god. This has references to underage abortion (if that's a thing?) and incest.

It was a solemn morning. They were gathered around the table, Dick trying hard to look supportive and empathetic but mostly seeming to put Steph off, Roy looking tiredly at the table, Bette not looking at Tim, Tim not looking at Bette, Cass holding Steph’s hand, and Bruce. 

Steph looked unsure. Like she hadn’t slept hardly at all, like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.

“I…”

Tim’s timid start had Bette looking sharply at him.

He soldiered on. “Hey, um, Bette. I’m really sorry I shoved you. That wasn’t okay. I’m, uh, sorry. I won’t do it again, please forgive me.” The last phrase seemed to simply slip out, and Bruce almost winced at the preprogammed feeling to it.

A Drake-ism.

Even after a couple of years, it was still there.

Bette regarded Tim. “Oh, good, you’re sorry. I’m sure all the crazy picketers are sorry too, huh, Tim, if they actually get caught being awful dickasses.”

Tim blanched at that. “I said I…” he seemed to trail off. “I _am_ sorry. I swear.”

“Fuck you, no you’re not. You just want Steph to not get rid of the fucking little blob cause you think it’s more important than she is!” Bette snapped back.

Tim’s teeth clenched at that, but he said, “No, they’re both important.”

“I just—I can’t even, Tim. No uterus, no opinion, kay? So shut the fuck up and—“

“Bette.” That was when Bruce interjected. “I know Tim hurt you, and that wasn’t okay, but he is sorry and it’s not kind or fair to tear him part this way. This is about Steph, not either of your ideologies.”

He was just glad he’d talked to Tim beforehand, because otherwise he’d be having this argument on two fronts.

“Hey, guess who also doesn’t have a uterus?” Bette snapped.

“Bette, I get that this affects women a lot—“

Bruce was cut off, Bette seeming to positively seethe. “Oh yeah? You do? Cool! Now that that’s settled, since you know pregnancy is really hard on women and shit, we can totes just make her keep it, right? Or, better yet, she can get an abortion and all of you can shame her! That’ll be real great, you fucking dicks.”

Cass was watching this with slightly widened eyes.

“Wouldn’t do that,” Roy murmured tiredly.

“Good, everyone but Roy!” Bette chirped angrily.

“Bette, there is no call to be this aggressive—“ Bruce started, and he knew it was the wrong thing to say the instant it left his mouth.

“How the fuck could anyone _not_ be angry about this?” Bette shouted at him. “They’re taking her goddamn freedom from her and tryna trap her, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Steph was looking at Bette in almost confusion, and it was true that they weren’t extremely close. Hell, Steph and Tim were typically closer. Bette had issues connecting with most of them beyond a superficial level, and understandably so.

This, however, was way beyond superficial.

Bruce considered this, and looked across at Bette, trying hard to understand from her perspective. “Bette, none of us want to trap Steph—into either decision. We’re trying to help.”

Bette sneered, nose wrinkling and looking she might almost snarl. “Oh, good. Then you can join the fucking dickasses tryna tell her they’d just take her baby if she weren’t so goddamn selfish, right? The assholes waving rosaries and shouting about God and shit and love and forgiveness, as if we even need it! Fuck you, fuck them, they can hold their goddamn signs all they fucking want, but if they think _they_ would get the brat, the kid’s better off gone!”

Tim was curling in a little, but not saying anything.

Bette’s eyes were shining, face a picture of previously unexpressed pain and fury.

Dick’s eyes were wide.

Roy was actually up, surprising Bruce, and leaned across the table, putting a hand on Bette’s elbow. “No one here thinks you’re bad. Fuck those assholes.”

Steph’s eyes were wide, watching Bette in a sort of shock.

And it pretty much clicked at that point.

Bette was not talking from rhetoric. She was speaking from experience and pain and using familiar phrasing.

A single tear fell down Bette’s cheek, and her head ducked down. “I know I’m not—I’m not bad. Yeah, fuck em.”

Roy nodded firmly. “You’re not. They just suck ass.”

Bruce’s chest seemed to throb, knowing that Bette had been through that, even if he didn’t know the details. He could certainly guess, and he really wanted to kill Mr. Kane at this point. And everyone who let it go on.

“Bette, we know you’re not bad. You were a minor in a terrible situation, and no one…no one here would ever hate you. Or blame you.”

Bette hiccupped a laugh, saying, “Yeah, well, maybe everyone but fucking Tim.” Her tone suggested she didn’t believe it—that they didn’t hate or blame her. “I coulda said no.”

“I don’t hate you,” Tim murmured, seeming almost scared by the display of emotion, but determined to voice it. “I don’t. I’m really sorry.”

He looked like he might cry too.

Like the horror of what he’d said and done had caught up with him, now that he had more understanding.

“We don’t hate you,” Roy echoed Bruce, “Sometimes you go through some really rough shit as a kid. You’re too young to know or control so much of it.”

Bette suddenly had placed her hand on top of Roy’s, and he turned his hand over from where it had been on her elbow, holding around the fingers.

“Tell that to the bitch who called me a selfish whore,” Bette murmured. “Cause, miniskirt means I’m doing it for fun, right?”

Cass had suddenly enveloped Bette in a hug, and the girl pressed her face into Cass’s shoulder.

Bruce had a feeling they would not hear all of this story today. Even acknowledging how much it hurt her seemed to drain Bette.

They quieted down soon, as Bruce got more tea.

He wished he could get Bette to understand they cared about her. That it wasn’t superficial and she didn’t need to be either. But she hadn’t been here long, and he would describe it as deprogramming—something Tim had definitely gone through.

Steph looked to Bruce, as if to say, ‘I can’t do that. I can’t do any of this, any of the options available.’

And Bruce knew he had to take a risk now. Tim was right, and Bette was right. They couldn’t let Steph go through this alone and suffer alone.

“Stephanie. We need to get CPS involved,” Bruce said, the words feeling heavy and light all at once in his mouth. Like a thing that had needed to be said for a long time, and yet was something he’d sort of never wanted to say for what it meant.

And Steph sniffled, and said, “It won’t work, you know it won’t—“

“No. That’s not true—I was afraid. I was afraid to try, because it could end badly, and that was cowardly and I’m sorry,” Bruce said, “It would have never gotten this far had I done the just, right thing and helped you.”

Tim’s eyes were wide. Almost hopeful. “We’re going to get Steph out?”

“Yes.” Bruce swallowed thickly.

Dick was looking at him like he knew how dangerous it was to all of them. That Roy could be made to leave if investigations were made, that the kids who weren’t adopted yet (Bette, Cass) could be taken back by the state. Could get his foster certification revoked. Or put their lives in danger, if it came to extremes.

Even Tim could be taken, despite legally being Bruce’s son, if things went south enough.

If their secret lives were discovered.

Steph looked unsure. “Is it only if I keep the baby?”

And Bruce’s heart broke just a little at the assumption, at the conclusion drawn. “No, Steph. We get you out, and then you can figure out what you want to do without the extreme pressure. Okay?”

The process undoubtedly would put things at risk, would be emotionally draining—but could Bruce really do any less?

And thank god for noncorrupt cops. For Barbara keeping an eye and making sure that her dad was aware of the case, could make sure it wasn’t made to just go away. For the neighbors who pitched in—Mrs. Greene, the Huangs, the Kaczkas across the street, those who had helped raise money for the legal fund and helped him keep things going.

Steph had been removed from the home immediately, upon evidence being procured. She wasn’t placed with him, because to do so was a conflict of interest in the social worker’s eyes, but she was placed with a friend: Lucius Fox, his wife, and their kids.

And while the legal battle raged on, she had a chance to recover and calm and consider.

She decided the baby would be given up to be adopted—an open adoption. So she could always see her baby, even if she couldn’t care for her right now. 

She was a fixture at their house—and soon enough, the Fox kids would become close friends with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Good god. I am so nervous about this. Figuring out an ending was extremely difficult, like almost nothing I've written as fanfic.
> 
> To me, I feel like Steph would prefer to keep her baby, at least to term--but circumstances would make her feel like it was her only option. As many pregnant teens end up feeling. It's a pretty different case as opposed to adult women who have full agency and don't feel forced, I suppose.
> 
> Bette, on the other hand, did feel forced, but couldn't acknowledge it at the time. Kind of a dissociative thing. She also felt like it would have been way worse to be pregnant to term and such, hence her strong feelings. Her and Tim actually do learn to get along better after this, if you're wondering.
> 
> And the Foxes get to come in as well.
> 
> Roy certainly has seen this before--teen and unwanted pregnancies are a big issue on many reservations, especially given the high rate of sexual assault on Native women. And a lack of support for women who do keep their babies.
> 
> Which, to me, is kinda the heart of the issue. That society makes it nigh impossible in such situations. You can't legislate away desperation or need or societal attitudes.
> 
> I dunno.
> 
> It is very tricky, and I have known such moms in my own community--even one who was kicked out by her family for daring to be a pregnant young adult out of wedlock. Despite her supposedly doing what they wanted and not aborting her son. It's complex as fuck, and this's a hard thing to cover in entirety.
> 
> We're not done with the difficulties Steph'll face cause of this, jsyk. It's definitely not over easily.
> 
> Okay. Gonna stop writing the note, let me know if something is horrific, as I come from an extremely different point of view on this issue than a lot of society and sometimes brainwashing bleeds over.


	68. So Lucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim runs into one of his mom's friends at the store. What she has to say blows Bruce away.

Tim’s parents had a surprising number of friends—or at least, acquaintances who thought well of them.

Thankfully, most of the time, this was hardly an issue, because Bruce ran in very different circles and didn’t have to worry much about encountering them.

The first time, though, had devastated Tim.

It was a few months in. Tim was slowly adjusting to Wayne house rules—or the lack of them, in comparison to what he was used to. Sometimes, Bruce would catch him daring to grin about something, a book or a picture on his laptop, or he’d giggle at a TV show. He was just getting used to Dick too, had stopped flinching whenever Dick raised a hand for a high five or a back pat.

And they ran into a woman Tim was able to identify.

“Janet Drake’s son? Are you one of the Drakes?” 

Tim’s eyes had momentarily shocked open, and Bruce had nearly moved between them. They didn’t often go to this part of Gotham, but Tim had needed a specific item for school, specific brand and all, and so they had gone to a higher quality store.

But Tim just turned and nodded, a false polite look on his face. “Yes. Timothy Drake.”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t remember me, you’ve grown so much since I last got to see you—I’m Mrs. Bott, your mother and I are in book club together!” The woman was overweight, middle aged, crow’s feet and blue eyeshadow. Her hair was curled in a perm close to her head, and her teeth were artificially straight.

Her sweatshirt had the words ‘Grandma’s Favorite People’ and little pictures of very young kids on it.

Tim’s smile stretched in a way that showed more teeth. Bruce didn’t know how the hell this woman couldn’t see that Tim would rather she were gone. “Oh, I remember you. You’re in the group picture in the group on mom’s social media. Busy Moms’ Book Club.”

She laughed obliviously, a small sound. “Yes, that’s me! Timmy, you’ve gotten so big! I remember when you were tiny and we’d take turns rocking you so Janet could get a break!”

Tim somehow made the smile appear warmer, while Bruce was quite certain his feelings actually turned chillier. “That was very kind of you.”

“I just wish I could see your mother more often—she’s so kind, and I don’t know how she does it all!” Mrs. Bott did not seem to know the same Janet Drake Bruce had met—and that Tim knew all too well. What she said next, however, made Tim audibly choke.

“You are so lucky she loves you so much.”

Tim had no words, evidently, fighting to keep the polite smile on his face even as Bruce could see his eyes start to water, the feelings starting to war within him—and so Bruce stepped in.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Bott, Tim and I have limited time to pick up what he needs for school—“

Her expression changed instantly to icy, as if she’d just realized Bruce was with Tim and not some random stranger hanging near him. Who Bruce had to be. “It makes me sick, what you people have done to the Drakes.”

Bruce was floored. He didn’t even know how to respond to that.

She continued on. “When I see people being hurt for no reason like that—well, no, no, I won’t go on. I’m sure you understand my feelings well enough. How much you’ve hurt Janet and Jack.” She flashed a look of sympathy to Tim, hand latching on to his wrist. “Hang in there, dear, they’re going to get you back.”

She didn’t seem to notice the way Tim practically wrenched his wrist back as she let go of it, instead focused on giving Bruce another ‘you should be ashamed’ look.

And it took all Bruce had to not hit that woman with the shopping basket. To not let the sudden fury in his chest take control.

But Tim was looking at him in earnest confusion, maybe fear, hand suddenly holding on to his sleeve. “Can we go home?” he choked out, seeming desperate not to lose it in public as Mrs. Bott disappeared to go on with her life, what she presumed justice served and forgotten about.

And for Tim, Bruce could control the urge to yell at the woman. He gently wrapped an arm around his foster son’s shoulders, seeing the stricken look on his face, and guided him out of the store.

They had taken the van today, Dick seated in it and waiting for them as he read through a book for school. He looked up in surprise as Bruce carefully guided Tim into the backseat. “What happened?”

“I’m lucky,” Tim managed, lip trembling before he clamped his mouth shut.

And Bruce felt like strangling Mrs. Bott, felt like the group-specific coverage of Tim’s case was horrific for the boy. Extremely selfish of his parents, but what else would you expect?

Tim’s mom was apparently sharing plenty about the agony she was going through about her son…and hadn’t shown up for the last couple of visits.

Dick climbed in the back bench with Tim, looping an arm around his foster brother’s shoulders. “Hey. Whatever happened, you don’t deserve that. You’re a good kid, and they just don’t get it.”

Tim’s head tentatively rested on Dick’s shoulder, and he nodded.

They drove home. Bruce made sure Tim got a mug of hot cocoa, and they watched some of the old trilogy of Star Wars movies, since Tim liked those.

By the night, it felt like it had blown over.

But Bruce still hated people who made the most comfortable conclusion they could from the outside of the situation. And next time, he would cut it off faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on my own experience! The line about being lucky is word for word what one of my mum's acquaintances said to me last week when I unexpectedly ran into her and she recognized me as my parents' kid.
> 
> I just smiled very politely at her and got out of the conversation as fast as possible. How the fuck do you explain, 'No, my mom's actually horrible and the reason I'm so messed up. Also, I haven't been home in a week because I feel so unsafe there. Did you know I have PTSD? You should ask my mum about that, since she's so sweet, I'm sure she'll tell you the whole story there.'
> 
> :P
> 
> Good times, man. The feeling of outsiders presuming your abuser is just awesome really sucks ass.


	69. Never Coming Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason believes he can never return home. Bruce wishes he could dissuade him, but that would require being able to talk to him.

Jason liked to stop by every so often now.

Cass had at first been sort of tense about it, and if Bette had noticed, Bruce was pretty sure she would have flipped her lid—protective of herself and Tim.

But what Bruce had quickly figured out was that his son, resurrected from the dead, did not want to be seen. Was instead looking wistfully into the house he’d once called home, full of pain and regret.

And it was killing Bruce. But the few times he’d tried to catch him, come outside with a blanket or food, Jason had already disappeared, far too vigilant to be caught and obviously not ready to talk to him. He wished he was, but he couldn’t force him to come inside—especially given that he couldn’t catch him. Even running out barefoot the second he saw him gave him no chance.

And he wanted him to know he wasn’t furious with him, that he just wanted him to _come home_.

Tim still was not talking a lot. He was mostly curled into Cass’s side of late, as she kept a protective posture and they both carried on with what they needed to do. Tim typically reading and doing schoolwork, Cass typically watching TV for school or practicing reading, often asking Tim for help. Bruce suspected she didn’t need as much help as she asked for.

Bette, on the other hand, had thrown herself into training like never before. She practiced kata and techniques until she nearly collapsed, dripping with sweat, she would constantly try to get her siblings to spar with her, and some days she’d have to take an ice bath to recover from what she’d put her muscles through.

She was going to burn out.

And he felt like everything was kind of going wrong, like he’d ruined all three of their lives—probably the other kids’ too.

Jason wouldn’t come home.

Bette wouldn’t stop fighting.

Tim wouldn’t relax, could barely sleep.

And Bruce had caused that.

Tonight, he could see Jason’s shadow outside the window, hidden in the bushes he and Dick had played in as kids. And he just couldn’t leave it, couldn’t give up on his son.

Bruce dropped the paper and headed for the door, trying not to move fast and scare Jason but also not so slow he missed him. “Jason.”

It was spoken to an empty outside, the sidewalk bright in the streetlight’s glow. Bruce glanced around, seeing the bushes a blank black-green in this light and a branch snapped.

And he swallowed his sorrow and went back inside to try and goad both Tim and Bette into going to bed, sleeping properly. To get back to proper health.

It felt hopeless, but he kept going anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written during my break! Thanks for the great comments so far, I will get to them tonight! :)
> 
> Y'all are the best.
> 
> Also, poor everyone.


	70. Your Smile's Your Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is a different case than most--and Bruce wants to reach him.

One thing that was extremely easy to pick up on with Cullen: he was not about to fight anyone.

And that was more worrisome than most parents would think it would be. Cullen and Harper had shown up with the word ‘FAG’ shaved into the backs of their skulls, her head held high with a defiant lip curl, and his downcast, dead-eyed.

Bruce had silently offered Harper a shaver, the same he used for Damian’s haircuts at the moment, and their haircuts had become more radically short overnight.

But Cullen’s confidence did not reappear just because some of physical evidence of the violence against him was gone.

In fact, it was almost as if his confidence got worse. He seemed to sink into the background, Harper’s shadow. Not that she forced him there, he sought her out—and who could blame him?

When a kid gets beaten like that, it sticks with them. When it happens more than once, it is drilled into their brain. When it’s from many different people, fear of everyone is only a natural response—and Ms. Walker’s case file had told him of several assaults related either by Harper or Cullen. No police reports filed, of course, given that most of them occurred when they were still runaways.

His buzzed haircut seemed to make it worse, somehow, like a baby bird deprived of feathers.

Bruce was very careful approaching Cullen, doing his absolute best to be nonthreatening. “Hey, Cullen,” he greeted, as he sat in his chair with a book. It was Redwall, one that he was rereading in order to properly grade Damian. The boy had begrudgingly agreed to read it, and was reading their other copy at the same time.

Both were very battered second hand copies, and Bruce had been sure to take the one that Jason had made a lemon pudding stain on ages ago, knowing the stain would irk Damian.

Cullen looked up quietly, and suddenly smiled at him. “Hi, Bruce.”

The smile was decidedly charming, or at least attempting to be. Very friendly. But Bruce could tell the flash of tension in his blue eyes, and had guessed by now this was a defense mechanism like any other.

Only, it was socially acceptable.

He gave a smile back. 

“Have you liked Tim’s breakfasts? He doesn’t always cook in the mornings, but he wanted to step up,” Bruce said, not entirely looking up from his book.

But he quickly caught on that Cullen’s eyes were wide.

“No, no, uh, I, uh, Tim’s nice and all—I’m not trying to—“ he was stuttering out, a fear playing out across his face as he tried to hide it.

And Bruce cursed what he’d said, but was quick to adjust. “No, Cullen, it’s all right. I really was only asking about breakfast. I know Tim tends toward extremely dry eggs.”

Cullen’s mouth opened and closed a moment, and he didn’t seem to believe Bruce, quickly looking down at his hands. “Breakfast is fine.”

Bruce was careful not to let out a sigh. He wanted to make it feel safe for Cullen, something the teen had clearly rarely experienced. Something he identified with Harper and absolutely nothing else. He was hunched in a little on the couch even before Bruce approached.

“If you’d like to make breakfast sometime, I’m pretty sure Tim will help you. He’d probably be very pleased to show you his method for making eggs,” Bruce said, fighting the affectionate smile off of his face.

Tim’s spat with Bette about making eggs, ages ago, was still in his memory. It was actually rather funny, because it hadn’t been a true fight, not angry, and it had been a welcome sign to him that things had truly improved.

The boy was still very particular about eggs.

Cullen shifted a little, eyes watching Bruce like he didn’t know if this was a trap. Then he smiled again. “I’ll be sure to ask him. Thank you.”

And Bruce didn’t want him to be falsely warm to protect himself. But he wasn’t certain how to breach that—and he didn’t want to force it, because that was equally bad, probably more so. “I…I hope you know you can say what you want here. No one’s going to harm you over it. You don’t have to…smile, or be nice.”

Cullen’s blue eyes seemed slightly confused, perhaps disoriented, and he nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

Of course not, is what he meant.

Bruce stood, and almost said something more, but didn’t want to push him. That was the last thing Cullen needed.

Harper turned up about that moment, and was instantly on the couch next to Cullen, like she’d sensed his distress. “Hey, hey, Cullen, guess what I found—Timbo showed me this on his laptop, kay, so—“

She had Tim’s laptop—by his permission. 

Bruce at least felt some relief about that. Tim could be extremely private at times, and perhaps if Harper could feel safe and accepted, so too could Cullen.

He headed for the kitchen, where Damian was rather viciously chopping onions. “What? I’m making soup for dinner.”

Bruce nodded, saying, “Thank you, Damian.”

“That one needs to eat,” Damian responded, frowning as he gestured in the direction of Cullen.

“He does,” Bruce agreed.

Damian grumbled to himself, and got back to making what Bruce recognized as a soup very full of vitamin C and other very healthy things. He just smiled to himself and moved on.

At least he wasn’t alone in trying to reach the sibling pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a reaction to CPTSD, like Cullen undoubtedly has, can be to be extremely nice to people--in the hopes that they won't hurt you. I have elements of this at times.
> 
> All humans can do this, but for Cullen it's a lot more default (at least, in this verse) in an unhealthy way. He has been hurt by a lot of people and doesn't know who he can trust to not hurt him--especially once they find out he's gay.
> 
> Plus, Mr. Row has been a general asshole, as will be shown.
> 
> (Harper has her own issues too, tbc)


	71. And Then They'll Take You (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is being threatened with his children being taken away on faulty reports. He can only hope it will blow over.
> 
> Because he doesn't know what to do if it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kinda born of a comment? So yeah.

Technically, Bette was still in his care, until 21. Same with Cass, same with any of his children who were adults but under 21.

And evidently, the number of girls in his home was unsettling some people.

“You have, let me see, one, two, three, yes, _three_ girls in your home, despite being a single male, plus a gay boy—how is that safe?” The woman who looked at him with vaguely panicky brown eyes, her eighties-curly hair in a messy bun, was another social worker.

“Two,” Bruce put in. 

“Look, I’m not even counting the one who got pregnant—that wasn’t, uh, Timothy, was it? Because that would be very bad, and we’d need to add that to the report—“ Her name was Ms. Brand, and she had been sent by an unnamed concerned neighbor.

“It was not Tim.” Bruce said it more flatly than he intended to. “If you’ve looked at any of the counselor’s reports, you’d know all the kids are doing quite well and are not in any danger from me.”

It made his gut churn just to say that, but evidently, he needed to.

“Well, well, you understand why people are concerned, don’t you? You do have a child out of wedlock—you didn’t even pay any kind of child support for any portion of his life!” Ms. Brand said this like it was the shock of the century, voice slightly wobbly in general.

“With a consenting adult woman with whom I am an equal,” Bruce responded tightly, “And I can’t very well pay child support if I don’t know he exists.”

Ms. Brand had a skeptical look on her face, as if Bruce was surely lying. “Well, if that’s the case, why didn’t you just ask?”

“I would hope someone I chose to be intimate with would tell me if she got pregnant,” Bruce said dryly.

“Well, there’s your mistake,” Ms. Brand said all too earnestly, scribbling on her clipboard.

Bruce took in a deep breath. He had to handle this correctly—if it didn’t go right, he could lose the kids. All of them. “How do I say this? I have no interest in molesting my children. I am repulsed by the very idea. And you wouldn’t be asking a foster mother this.”

He knew he shouldn’t have added that, that it would only work against him, but Ms. Brand’s eyes flashed over to him, that look on her face like she’d caught some loophole in his statement. 

“Well, well, you see, that’s because complaints have been made, and I didn’t tell you what they were, but you guessed—a lot of protesting going on there, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce bit back a shout of, ‘You couldn’t have been more obvious!’ and said, “It’s an easy conclusion to make, when you specifically talk about girls and my homosexual foster son.”

“But I never said that,” Ms. Brand said, busily scribbling away on her clipboard.

Bruce took another deep breath. It felt like he was going to lose no matter what happened. “You can’t be serious. Ms. Brand, my children are happy and safe here. There is a shortage of foster homes, particularly ones where my kids will feel as safe. If you take them from here—“

“Threatening doesn’t become you, Mr. Wayne,” Ms. Brand said, giving him a look like you might give a recalcitrant two year old. “It’s better for them to be anywhere but somewhere they risk sexual abuse. That’s very terrifying, even if you don’t think so.”

“I know so.” Bruce gritted his teeth, wondering how the fuck he was going to get through to someone who had clearly already made up their mind. “One of my children has gone through it at least, and I don’t intend for any of them to go through it again.”

“Well, the report’s done,” Ms. Brand said, abruptly standing up.

“You haven’t seen the rest of the house,” Bruce said, “How can you be sure this is an accurate report?”

“Oh, I have all I need,” Ms. Brand replied, eyes earnest and yet stupidly fiery. A ‘you’re going down, evil man’ kind of look.

Bruce stood, maybe too fast, and said, “These are my kids, they need me—“

“I think you need them far more than they need you,” Ms. Brand returned, looking pleased she essentially got to quote Lilo & Stitch. She must have been saving that.

Bruce let out a huff, wanting to tear this woman limb from limb. She was on a witch hunt.

And he knew why.

A plethora of cases of grooming and abuse by single foster fathers had recently graced the front cover of several of Gotham’s newspapers. Apparently, corrupt social workers had allowed such placements knowing that they were signing away girls to be child brides, or at least to be raised to be the ‘father’s’ bride upon hitting 18.

And scathing public opinion had come down on the department.

As well as the law.

Bruce had actually had a part in uncovering the cases and helping get the girls out.

Which meant he had had a feeling this might turn back on him, what with the zeal of the CPS to whitewash the soot marks from this scandal.

Ms. Walker had no control in this case. She had been moved to a different branch of the Gotham CPS.

And here it was. “Please,” he said, a fear panging in his chest at what would happen to Damian, Tim, Harper and Cullen—not even getting into his adult children. “At least look at the rest of the house—“

“Good day, Mr. Wayne,” Ms. Brand said, in a primly tremulous way that was clearly meant to make her sound cold or in power. Justified.

And all Bruce could do was wait for the report to be filed.

He called a family meeting of the older kids—Dick, Roy, Bette, Cass, and Jason. 

Jason was all for spiriting the kids away. Bette was all for telling off the CPS. Cass had a protective aura, a look that said she would fight for her family. Roy shook his head, murmuring about that not being legal or right. 

And Dick nearly cried on the spot. Anger. “They can’t do that! That would kill them! Fuck—what the hell does this lady think she’s doing?”

“Restoring public image, but probably reassuring herself she’s serving up justice,” Bruce said flatly. “They can’t take them away permanently without a proper trial, but…” he swallowed. “It could be months. The good news is, if we have to, Cass, Bette, you can emancipate yourselves from the foster care system and keep living here. Tim, Damian, Cullen, and Harper won’t have that option.”

“Fucking bitchass lady,” Jason murmured, elbows heavily on the table. 

“Damn right!” Bette snapped.

“We can only hope that someone will see sense. That’s why there are levels to go through,” Bruce said.

“And if they don’t—“

“If they don’t, there isn’t a lot we can do,” Bruce said, swallowing the lump in his throat.

The weight of the situation seemed to weigh heavily on everyone at the table, silence reigning. Once the kids were gone, they were gone for good—but it probably wouldn’t go that far.

Probably.

Damian didn’t seem to understand why everyone was more tense, or why they were even more absurdly affectionate than before, but there was a quiet knowledge in Tim’s eyes. Like he’d guessed.

And Harper and Cullen hadn’t been around long enough to know the moods, but Cullen seemed to shrink more.

Bruce only hoped this blew over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might not put all the parts next, might do some more standalone chapters? But yeah. It certainly is a thing.
> 
> Innocent people in a group get targeted to make a power look good. Much like the TSA. :P
> 
> But yeah, and more on this soon! I feel like Ms. Brand is a newbie who is overzealous and will probably burn out within the year. Social work ain't easy. And she sees what she wants, which is also why she is not a good fit to be a social worker.


	72. And Then They'll Take You (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce feels powerless as his kids are taken.

It was an agonizing wait, but it wasn’t long.

Like they remembered that Bruce was alert, was exactly the kind of father who would fight for his kids, they showed up early in the morning and acted like they owned the place. No real warning, just a man in a green jacket, accompanied by a pair of police officers, telling Bruce that he was to surrender his children to the state while the investigation was pending.

Tim hadn’t had his caffeine yet, and was understandably bewildered when a duffel bag was thrown at him by an oh so helpful social worker, telling him to ‘grab your things, you have ten minutes.’

He just clutched the bag for a moment, and turned to look at Bruce. He was still wearing Superman pajamas, something from his childhood he seemed to cling to. “No, no…Dad, you have to tell them—“

His voice was quickly rising in panic, and Bruce made a move towards Tim, but he was blocked by one of the officers as the man in the green jacket informed him, “Since you have been accused of threatening and intimidating one Angela Brand, I can’t allow you near vulnerable children.”

“Dad!” 

Bruce had to clench his teeth to keep from going to Tim, because he couldn’t risk him being taken away forever.

And that was also when the shitstorm started. “Who are these intruders? And why are they daring to lay a hand on my brother?”

Damian didn’t know he couldn’t fight these people. And his fists were already clenched, foot starting to slide into an attack stance. 

“Damian!” Bruce barked. “Please, just go with them.”

Damian blinked in confusion, staring at Bruce like he’d grown a third head. “You’d let them take us?”

Tim had let go of his panic to put his hands on Damian’s shoulders. “We have to.” His voice was choked, his blue eyes on Bruce like he was begging him to say otherwise, despite knowing that it wasn’t the case. Even as sleepy as he was, Tim could certainly figure out the situation well.

Damian’s face turned into a positive snarl. “How dare you! You’re my _father_ , and you’d let them take me without lifting a finger?”

“Can we be placed together?” Tim implored the man in the green jacket. “We’re very close, and I don’t think he’d do well without me.”

Bruce couldn’t say anything. It would look like a plan. “Please, Damian, if things go well, you’ll be back. I wouldn’t let them take you if I could help it.”

Tears were beginning to show in Damian’s eyes, his face turning red. “I was good! I did everything I could to be good, and now you’re punishing me! You’re as bad as mother!”

And Tim wrapped his arms around Damian’s shoulders, partly to hold him back. “Come on, Dami, it’s not like that—“

Wrong move. “Get off! Get off, get off, get the hell out of my house!” 

The screaming was now at the people who dared to take them, not Tim. He was going to go into a meltdown, and Bruce knew he had to act.

He came over, getting down to Damian’s level and putting one hand on either side of his face. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Titus, easily picking up on Damian’s distress, came over at that point, nosing at Damian. Tim was quick to let him go, and Damian latched onto the dog, who laid himself across his lap. His eyes were still teary, his face red, choked off almost-screams coming out of his mouth. 

By now, Harper and Cullen were rushing down the stairs. “What the fuck?!” Harper shouted, then instantly quieted, seeing Damian.

Her hand clenched Cullen’s, though.

“This needs to end,” the green jacket man said, looking annoyed. “We need to get going, tell your son—“

“Hey. I will fight your flat ass,” Bette said, appearing from the backyard, door creaking as it was slammed open. The shaved haircut seemed to only piss off the green jacket man further.

“Bette Kane. You are to be moved to another home as well—“

“Uh, Wayne, for one thing, official or not. Secondly, don’t touch the fucking kid.” The clothes certainly didn’t help the green jacket man’s opinion, and the clenched fists, promising action, didn’t help the cause either.

“Please get in the car, Miss Kane. As for the other Miss Cain, she had better show up soon, because we don’t have all day.” His eyes narrowed suspiciously at Bruce, like he planned this.

“Cain and I are leaving foster care,” Bette said sharply, eyes narrowing. “We’re adults. We have every right.”

The green jacket man pressed his lips together thinly. “I’d need to hear it from her. It is indeed your choice to imperil your futures.”

Bruce’s teeth clenched. As much as the foster care assistance helped, he would still care for the two and keep them safe. He would help them any way he could. ‘Imperil’ was a far too strong word for what they were letting go of.

Cass came down at that point, mouth tight at the sight of Damian, Tim, the shock on Harper and Cullen’s faces. “I am leaving too.”

“That is your decision,” the green jacket man allowed. “Not theirs, however.”

Cass tightly hugged Tim at that point, resting her chin on his shoulder even though it required a bit of ducking down. “Be good.”

And Tim hugged tightly back, and then Bette joined the hug, glaring back balefully at the green jacket man.

“My eldest son will be back from the store soon—“ Bruce started, heart jumping in his throat a little as he realized Dick and Roy wouldn’t get the chance to say goodbye. Nor Jason, for that matter, but finding him in time would be a challenge in comparison.

“No. We’ve delayed long enough,” the green jacket man replied, and nodded towards Tim. “Come on, time to go.”

“I-I’m still in PJ’s,” Tim stuttered.

When the green jacket man seemed about to say ‘too bad, kid,’ Bette snapped at him, “He gets to fucking get dressed, don’t be a dickhole!”

The police officers seemed to twitch nearby, and Bruce quickly said, “Bette, please calm down. And get a bag for Damian. Cass, help the others, please.”

“We already got our shit,” Harper sneered. It seemed to be her response to fear. And she did indeed have two duffels, having slipped away. Bruce got the feeling she’d known they’d be leaving soon.

Damian was still holding tightly to Titus, no longer screaming and near meltdown, but face buried in the dog as his shoulders hunched in humiliation and fear. Bruce’s heart gave a sick thump as he realized that Damian had made a 180 degree turn—there was nowhere else he’d rather be than here.

“He needs his dog,” Bruce said to the man. “Please. He’s autistic, and Titus helps him.”

“If the dog is at risk, then animal services should be called,” came the reply from the green jacket man, “Otherwise, we can’t force people to take a kid and a dog.”

Damian would probably be pretty pissed at Bruce telling people he was autistic and pleading on his behalf because of it, if he was paying much attention at that point. Well, he probably noticed, but was actively blocking it out, as much as he could. His whole world at that moment seemed to be Titus, but Bruce knew his son’s observation of his environment pretty much never turned off.

Tim was gone, getting dressed, seeming to have accepted his fate. He had always been decidedly more fatalistic at times than the others. He probably also realized there was no fighting this that would turn out well.

Thank god, Bette had gone to stand guard outside his room and was no longer here to piss off the officers. There was not an ounce of sympathy in their stony expressions, instead a look of 'being the badge', cold, hard metal, and nothing more.

Bruce almost couldn't blame them. This was not a comfortable situation for anyone.

And he also could, because their coldness just made it feel that much more difficult, traumatic, as he could tell by his youngest child's reaction.

Being taken was certainly on Damian's list of unspoken fears, right up there with being abandoned. Or losing a sibling or Bruce.

The green jacket man was giving him a look, not smug, but certainly some self righteousness, or maybe a 'this is my job, nothing you can do about it' kind of look.

Bruce felt like he'd been the child who'd seen that look. People fulfilling such laws but not giving a shit about anyone involved. As if they were being hassled by having to do their jobs. And he wanted nothing more than to gather his kids close, remind them that he loved them and would do everything he could to get them back.

He was lucky they'd let him near Damian, though.

Tim returned at that point, breaking the silence with a cough which he seemed embarrassed about. Bette had a tight arm around his shoulders at that point, seemingly a promise.

He was wearing a faded red tshirt and loose jeans. A good outfit for blending in if you didn't know the setting.

Cass had a bag for Damian, and oh so gently eased him up and away from Titus. She kept a loose but firm hold on him, and he seemed torn between shrugging her off to look tough or accepting the comfort he so badly wanted.

The officers blocked Bruce from moving toward his kids to hug them goodbye. He could see the severe unease in Cullen's posture as he stayed near Harper, and Bruce put in, "Cullen, Harper, they need to be together. If you look at the case file from--"

"We'll do what is best for the children, Mr. Wayne," the green jacket man replied like an automatic response on a phone.

And Bruce could not leave the door of his own house, which he knew they could not, should not be able to stop him from legally--but legality was a loose concept in this moment, wherever that worked against him.

Anything that could be used or slanted as evidence in this instance would be.

Tim gripped Damian's hand as they got in the back of the CPS car. Bruce could see Mr. Huang at his window, could see the Kaczkas who were home across the street as Mr. Kaczka watched in shock from where he was coming home from the night shift. Mrs. Greene had her walker up to the small concrete porch of her house, looking out her screen door.

Harper took the passenger seat in front, seeming unwilling, but more unwilling to make Cullen sit alone with the lady driving.

And the car left. Just gone.

Bruce went back into the house and sank slowly into his recliner. Cass and Bette joined him, Bette near angry tears, and Cass with a tight expression.

"We'll get them back," Bruce said softly.

Nothing more was said for the next ten minutes, at about which time Dick and Roy returned to the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think being hampered by the law is a special kind of powerlessness, because, yeah, technically you could charge in and do the thing, you are physically, mentally capable, but you just can't. Feeling this a lot about baby bro lately.
> 
> About injustice in general, maybe.
> 
> Anyway, 'kids' who are legally adults in foster care can stay til 21 in many states. They can leave whenever they choose, and the purpose is to make sure they are stable and able to care for themselves. Cause there is a ridiculously high rate of foster kids who age out who end up homeless and so on. It's kinda sick, honestly. 18? *boom* Not our problem anymore! seems to be the attitude of too many state governments (can't speak for countries outside of America).
> 
> So, it would be easy for Cass and Bette to emancipate.
> 
> On the other hand, much more difficult for the minors. They can, but it's far more lengthy and up to the discretion of the court and such.
> 
> Damian didn't have a meltdown in this chap, to be clear. He was getting close, but once a meltdown gets going, there is no stopping it. I know this from seeing it and having it related, plus actual scientific shit I researched. Not all autistics have meltdowns, but it is a thing very distinct from a temper tantrum.
> 
> And Titus isn't a service dog in an official sense, because that's extremely expensive for their family.


	73. And Then They'll Take You (Part 3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easy enough to locate the kids. 
> 
> It's hard to deal with not being able to simply take them back home.

Roy and Dick’s return had been predictably full of emotions.

But there wasn’t a lot they could do. 

Technically, it wouldn’t be hard to locate their new foster homes and do something. They had more than enough know how to do that. Hell, they could probably storm the place and just take them back.

Having the physical ability was not the same as having the legal right, though.

And America didn’t operate under a bloodprice system.

(Damian had been learning about the Germanic tribes. The early times of Beowulf and other such legendary heroes. Bruce hoped he had at least books to occupy him.)

(Tim had had the loose assignment of an essay on a lesser known hero of WWII. He’d chosen Noor Inayat Khan. It had been a ten page paper of his own accord. He hoped Tim was remembering to be brave.)

(He hoped they all were.)

Bruce ran his hands through his hair, as Bette tapped away on their inexpensive computer, one with a comet symbol sticker plastered on the back. Cass came over, leaning so that her hair was just brushing Bette’s cheek.

“I found where Timbers is, and Dami and Cullen, and then Harper,” Bette said, looking over at Bruce, blue eyes sparking just a little at the injustice.

No one was with who they should be.

“Let me see,” Bruce sighed, leaning over to look.

A bit of intel on the families/homes the kids were staying at was enough to make Bruce’s blood boil.

Tim was with a full family unit—mother, father, and two adult sons. The Fullers. Apparently, they’d fostered and often adopted quite a few sons. Their case files showed their sons tended towards either going into the Army, Marine Corps, or Navy—or cutting all contact. 

The social worker who worked with them said they ‘helped boys shape up’ in her rather sparse notes.

Damian and Cullen, while together, had fared no better—possibly worse. They were in a home for troubled children, not a family home, but an overcrowded catchall.

Bruce got a terrible stomachache when he thought of the two probable scenarios—Damian protecting Cullen and getting in deep shit, or Damian abandoning Cullen and Cullen getting in deep shit. He feared for Damian, for the boy ending up in juvie, and for Cullen, because the kid was very likely to get beaten up—or far worse.

And Harper? Was in jail. Had likely fought to stay with Cullen. It seemed she had originally been about to be placed with a family that did not want teenage boys or more than one foster kid at a time.

The family looked nice enough, apparently for the sake of irony.

Bruce swallowed, trying to keep control over his temper. If any of them were caught anywhere near any of the kids, it would be damning.

But he hadn’t spent two decades learning to blend in with the night for nothing.

Harper couldn’t be reached. But he was confident they could bolster the boys.

Bette was enthusiastic about this idea, saying, “Hell yeah, like fuck I’m not seeing Baby Bird. Gotta make sure he’s eating and shit.”

Dick added, “I should see Damian. He’s probably having a really rough time--”

“Oh. Wait, I should see Cullen,” Bette said, almost reluctantly. Not so much against Cullen, just against the idea of not seeing Tim. “You should see Timmers, Cass, he probably needs you and shit.”

Bruce sighed. “Who--”

He didn’t get to finish. Roy put in, “Tim’ll be desperate to see you. See him tonight, Damian and Cullen tomorrow night. We’ll scope out Damian and Cullen’s situation, since they’re more likely to be hard to get to, and if we can, make contact. Me, Bette, and Dick. Jason, you--”

Jason looked up. He’d been quiet. “I know a lot about that kinda place. I should come.”

And Bruce knew he did. He put a hand on his son’s shoulder, and Jason didn’t shrug it off. It was a much larger shoulder than when Jason was little, when he’d first adopted his son and the boy had been wary of touch from him.

It was still Jason, though.

“I’ll see Tim,” Cass said, nodding. Reassuring the group that she would do her best to see he was all right.

And so it was settled. Bette, Dick, Jason, and Roy set out under the cover of darkness for the so called home that housed Damian and Cullen.

Bruce and Cass silently approached the Fuller’s house.

It was quiet. It was nearing eleven at night, because Bruce knew disrupting Tim’s sleep too much would be bad. It was better to have to wait out the family inside than to arrive too late, when Tim was far too sleepy.

It was a two story. Gray slat walls. Dull red window shutters. Dirty screens.

The front porch was a big one, a little cluttered with what appeared to be car parts and simple exercise tools. Sports equipment too. A chin up bar was installed on the side of the house, and a rusty basketball hoop loomed over a big, red truck. There were two other cars—a niceish black one, and a gold pinto that looked near death.

The slight flicker of a TV from the living room, plus what sounded like an old war movie, filtered out the open screen window.

Bruce and Cass scoped out the room that was Tim’s.

It turned out to be accessible, thank god, with the porch jutting under the window. They could have scaled into a window with nothing jutting underneath, but it was still a relief it _had_ a window.

Cass peered into the room, and tapped on the glass in a rhythm that most of the kids knew as the secret code—sort of the beat to a song that Dick liked, a Beatles song. _Here Comes the Sun._

The blanket, a thick one, fell to the floor as Tim came over to the window, fast but on tiptoe. The boy had already been able to be incredibly silent when he came to Bruce, and his training only heightening those skills. His blue eyes were wide, as he made out Cass and Bruce.

And then he started to cry, hand on the glass.

Cass pressed her hand against the spot his was on the opposite side. Bruce could tell the distress radiating from her at being unable to get to Tim.

Bruce made the motion to open the window, but as he suspected, Tim just shook his head, directing his eyes towards the base of the window.

A padlock.

Bruce wanted to smash the goddamn window in. It was good it was him and Cass. He didn’t know that he would have stopped Bette or Jason in time.

And obviously, Tim had not had the opportunity to pick it. Didn’t have the tools to pick it quietly or quickly.

Cass started signing to him, both of them able to basically communicate in ASL. Bruce had made sure on that, all of the kids besides Harper and Cullen knew it to some degree.

Tim signed that he was locked in, no way out. Cass inquired as to his general condition.

He looked away from them for a moment. Bruce hoped it wasn’t something horrible he didn’t have the sign for.

And Tim finally signed that he hurt. He was sad, but could not cry. He had to do pushups if he cried. And he could do a lot, but the goal was for him to do more than he could, until he stopped with the ‘bad behavior.’

Bruce’s fury was hard to contain, his need to take his son and go.

Cass was similarly angry. She asked for more information.

Tim almost bashfully signed out that the sons were mean. That they called him a fag and made claims about how the Army did things. Yelled in his face.

He was scared, he admitted, not looking at Cass or Bruce.

Cass pressed her hand against the window again, and he pressed one of his, and then the other. 

Bruce signed to him that if they ever raised a hand against him, he was to tell the social worker. Tim laughed, probably silently, at that, and signed back that he already reported what had happened so far.

He made the sign for liar.

And it took all Bruce had not to smash the window, or not to go downstairs and thrash the man and his sons.

All he wanted was to hold his son and keep him safe.

He couldn’t do that, though.

They stayed for as long as they could, which was about ten minutes more, before Tim urgently told them to leave and ran back to his bed.

And Bruce still had to face what had happened with the others. He wasn’t certain his heart could take anymore, but his other kids came back bearing tales.

They were not good stories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Tim is probably in one of the worst households for him considering his type of abuse. Mr. Fuller is big on military style control, and there is little Tim hates more than being controlled.
> 
> Plus, he is not fond of shit like physical intimidation.
> 
> ASL is good to know. I know a tiny bit, and it's helped me when I've gone nonverbal.
> 
> Aaaand, this's gonna be at least a four parter. DX
> 
> My head injury is slowly healing. Not 100 percent yet, but doing better. I hope y'all liked the chapter. (Probably will get to comments on the last one tomorrow, cause I slow rn)


	74. And Then They'll Take You (Part 4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are getting worse fast--and Bruce fears for the wellbeing of his kids.
> 
> Maybe even their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Mentions of Suicide, Suicidal Feelings

Damian and Cullen were not doing better.

Bruce had a throb of pride in his chest to hear that Damian was indeed protecting Cullen, but he also knew this was probably leading to all kinds of consequences.

And he wasn’t wrong.

“They’re thinking of transferring him somewhere more _secure_ if they can’t get him under control,” Dick said miserably. He’d related the minor injuries Damian had, the way it looked like he wasn’t sleeping, the way that his eyes just held a deep simmering hatred.

Cullen had a black eye and a bruised lip. That was all physically—mentally, though, he was clearly having a hell of a time.

“The kid, that poor fucking kid, he told me maybe if they were lucky he’d just die. Painlessly. Then Damian’d be all right and he wouldn’t be tortured when he was gone.” Bette’s lips quivered in fury, tears threatening to fall.

Jason snarled, punching a wall. “Why the fuck are we letting them do this?!”

“We can’t just march in there,” Bruce said, as much as every muscle, every fiber of his heart demanded he do so.

“Yeah, we fucking can! Just rescue them, what’re they gonna do?”

“Jason,” Bruce said, voice heavy and hard to get out, “Where do we go after that?”

“We—we, uh, we can just hide them—“

“How long? Until they’re adults? What about schooling? What about medical care? What about just getting to leave the house without worrying about being recognized?”

Jason’s face creased up, and he punched the wall again. Bruce wasn’t concerned about that, despite the cracks. “Fuck. _Fuck._ Fuck those fucking assholes to hell!”

He kicked the wall, an inarticulate snarl of rage, and then dropped down, face buried in his hands.

Cass was quiet, staring down at her own tightened fists.

Bruce could feel their pain, their rage. Bette’s quiveringly angry posture, Dick’s desperation and fury, Roy’s closed off rage. 

He knew because he felt it too.

“We’re going to have to hope that they see the truth. And when they do, they will send the kids home,” Bruce said softly, because if he spoke louder, his voice would break. He would break down, and he just couldn’t do that to his adult kids.

Because it was a desperate situation, and he needed to hold them together. Every last one of them was ready to storm those houses, and he had to keep them from doing it.

It hurt. It hurt like hell to know his kids were going through hell.

“We’re going to do what we can,” he said again, “We’re going to keep what contact we can. Support them any way we can that won’t jeopardize their coming back. I’ll see Damian and Cullen tomorrow—Bette, Dick, you’ll visit Tim. We’ll talk to Barbara about seeing Harper—they’re not that close, but she may be our only shot.

“Stephanie and Tam might be able to visit Tim. We should see if they can swing it. Group homes are much harder to visit, so we’ll have to focus on supporting those two as much as possible. No one is dying on my watch.”

_Not again._ It went unspoken through the room, and Cass suddenly went over to hold Jason’s arm, which he let her, resting his head on her shoulder.

“Can I visit? I’m not a legal member of the family,” Roy put in, hands folded between his knees thoughtfully. 

Bruce had to weigh this. He knew the people involved were extremely suspicious of Bruce and his brood, were certainly blocking him and would take any opportunity to use the visits of his other children as evidence.

Legally, they were perfectly allowed, minus perhaps Bruce. Technically. But it was quite clear, by the couple of attempts made, that they had no intention of letting the kids see their family. 

It was always a bad time, the kid in question needed time for x thing, the counselor didn’t recommend it, so on and so forth.

It wasn’t legal, technically speaking. But unfortunately, that didn’t mean being illegal in return would help. They held the power here. And it was slowly killing all of them.

“We can check. I get the feeling, though, that male identifying members of the family, or Bette, or Cass, won’t be welcome.” Bruce said this quietly, because he didn’t want it to be true, and he knew that his kids were scared and miserable and--

He was going to punch a wall if he focused on the look he’d seen on Tim’s face.

So, it was arranged. Roy was denied, under the idea that Tim had supposedly mentioned his drug habits and violence, and it was impossible for him to see Harper (who he’d taken a liking to, since her first name was his last name) or to see Damian and Cullen.

But Steph and Tam were able to see Tim. Bruce got reports of Tim apparently hugging too tightly and long for his foster parents’ sensibilities, of the way he shied a bit after a pointed comment from Mr. Fuller.

Tam related that he kept touching the back of his head, and that the sons were possibly a full foot taller than Tim, and built like linebackers. 

She got creepy-crawlies just looking at them.

Steph apparently had managed to hold her temper, despite seething and coming back to rant that Tim looked ‘fucking terrible, oh my god, if you think he didn’t sleep before, he’s doing the opposite of sleep now, and he just looks so goddamn _done_.’

Barbara didn’t have anything better to report from the juvenile holding cell in the jail. Harper’s lip ring was missing, but there was a nasty tear in its place, as well as some bruising.

Harper had responded, squaring her shoulders, that ‘shit happens’ when Barbara asked.

And immediately asked after Cullen.

Cullen was definitely not doing well.

Bruce had managed to see him and Damian—Damian had latched right on, holding tightly to his father. Which, as sad as it was to say, was never a good sign.

And Damian had said something that just made this all the more difficult. “Father, if I were to contact Mother, she would help us. She would send people to get us free, and it wouldn’t incriminate you.”

“Damian, we can’t do that,” Bruce replied heavily, unable to explain fully. Where would you even start with explaining to Damian why they couldn’t call his mother? The deaths, the danger to Damian, the danger of the League’s interest, the danger to other siblings, the list went on and on.

“Mother wouldn’t tell Grandfather,” Damian insisted, “She would know better.”

“We can’t get your mother involved, it’s too dangerous,” Bruce responded, and he could hear Damian’s jaw snap in anger.

“Father, Cullen is going to _die_! Is that more important than not having to speak to my mother?!” 

Bruce was astonished. He could see angry tears in his son’s eyes, and looked to where Cullen was being held by Bette. The teen was clearly crying, face buried, seeking comfort that would never be enough.

Because Harper was his only source of comfort, and she couldn’t be here by any stretch.

“Damian, I just need you two to hold on for--” Bruce said, voice choked in his throat, but Damian cut him off.

“It’s not going to work, I can’t! I just can’t—they get him every time my back is turned, I can’t stop them, or him, and—and--” Damian was choking up too, and his rage was evident. “He won’t get up for meals anymore. I have to drag him. He is _broken_ , Father, I can’t save him!”

Bruce carefully hushed his son, knowing that being heard could be disastrous. He held Damian tightly, feeling the boy shake.

And he could see enough of what Cullen had been through to see why his resolve to live was rapidly eroding. 

Almost anywhere Bruce could see was evidence. And he was wearing a sweatshirt, baggy synthetic fiber cargo pants, and he had been pushed down for so much of his life and didn’t know how to fight back. Every tactic he had didn’t work here.

Bette brought him over. “Bruce, listen to Cullen, kay? He wants to talk to you.”

Cullen had his face partially obscured by Bette, like he was afraid to face Bruce. 

“Hi, Cullen,” Bruce said softly, feeling Damian hide his tears in his coat.

“I’m not...I’m not stupid,” Cullen said, and his voice was slightly slurred from a swollen lip. “I know what’s going on.”

“I know. I know, Cullen,” Bruce said.

And Cullen turned sad eyes on Bruce, a resigned, hopeless look there. “I’m gonna die here.”

“You’re not, you won’t,” Bruce said, “You only need to hold on for a while longer, it’s not permanent.”

“If I don’t do it, they’re gonna,” Cullen insisted, “Damian can’t, not for as long—he can’t. And they’ll leave _him_ alone, so--”

“Cullen, I need you to make me a promise,” Bruce said, “For Harper. Okay?”

Cullen nodded, and Bruce could see the way his eyes just wanted to slide tiredly shut. 

“You need to hold on. Tell one of the staff--”

“ _The Staff_ are the main problem!” Damian hissed angrily, “They taunt us and mock us and try to make him stand alone. They make him stand by himself and stare at a wall, and he can’t look away even if others come to hit him or heckle him.”

Bruce’s blood might boil out of his body. He needed a moment to collect himself before he managed, “Why? What rationale could they possibly--”

He could feel Damian’s sneer. “’ _He gets in fights._ ’ It doesn’t matter to them that he doesn’t fight, if someone hits him, he’s in trouble, because they hate him because they’re imbeciles.”

Easy target, Bruce realized with horror. Cullen couldn’t be an easier target. The only way he would be, would be if Damian wasn’t here. 

And Bruce had been an ‘easy target’ for a short while. He’d learned fast not to be an easy target.

He didn’t think Cullen would have that chance.

He set his jaw. He was going to have to do something he didn’t want to do, would rather have done almost anything else.

He kissed Damian on top of the head, and said to Cullen, “Hold on for tonight and tomorrow at least. Can you do that? For Harper? For Damian? For us?”

Cullen nodded slowly. The weeks here had clearly worn him away.

Bruce gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder, and Bette kissed the side of his head, saying, “Kay, baby gay, I need you to take good care of yourself. Do whatever Damers tells you. Just hang on, like Bruce says, and it’s gonna be okay.”

They had to leave. They couldn’t risk being spotted.

It wouldn’t matter for much longer, Bruce knew, even as Bette gave him questioning looks.

He was contacting Talia al Ghul.

And he’d have to hope he could control this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied and I am sorry. I made the arc too big, and now it's a five parter. DX
> 
> So, with Cullen, I kinda understand that feeling. It's a psychological torture thing, which I had the pleasure of revisiting when I found one of my old journals. Like a third of the entries at least mention death or suicide in a resigned or even hopeful way. Good times. I was one sad kid.
> 
> But, like Cullen, I was an easy target for my family, cause I got injured plus had PTSD and all kindsa shit. My asshole sis delighted in telling an extremely paranoid teenage me that my food was poisoned, or my cup was poisoned, or she thought she saw some dude with maybe a knife outside.
> 
> Good times.
> 
> In my mind, pushing someone to the point of suicide is murder. But yeah.
> 
> And when the staff/foster parents in a place are like that, it's pretty horrific, that's for sure. Some people get off on power, and they sneak past and get it.


	75. And Then They'll Take You (Part 5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia comes to the rescue.

Talia was someone Bruce hadn’t talked to in some time.

This was an understanding between them, in some ways—Talia didn’t want Damian in her world. Not in a selfish way, as she had once, in a rare meeting, expressed to Bruce.

No. The selfish action, in Talia’s mind, had been keeping Damian there. Had been not wanting to be lonely.

Had been pretending it was good for anyone but her. 

She was stiff today, watching Bruce and wearing a silky looking white coat. She still occasionally sent things and money for Damian, but had to be careful not to attract too much attention to the boy. To remind her father of his existence. Her red-purple lips parted as she said, “Bruce, beloved. It’s been too long.”

Bruce nodded with a sigh. He did care for Talia, in spite of everything. “It has. Damian has missed you.”

She let out a sigh at that herself. A wish to be in her son’s life without endangering him. 

And yet, Bruce knew she wouldn’t—couldn’t, give up her life as an assassin and fighter. As a potential controller of the world. 

“What did you come here for? Is the catlady not putting out?” She said it almost lightly, not with the hate one might expect. Just a touch of disapproval.

Bruce sighed again at that. “I came about something urgent. Your son and my children are in danger due to being seized by the foster care system. They took them under false accusations, and...I need your help.”

Talia looked mildly pleased he’d admitted to needing her help. Her demeanor changed a bit, though, as she asked, “How is our son?”

“He’s...angry. He’s trying to protect his foster brother from the other children and the staff while staying within the rules—not getting taken away forever. It’s not working,” Bruce said, remembering his son crying onto his coat, remembering the helpless rage Damian had.

Talia’s face changed again—it seemed like concern. It was hard to tell with her at times, and Bruce knew she had long ago learned how to guard her facial expressions. To the point that perhaps she didn’t know how to make genuine ones. “Damian isn’t well, then.”

“No, he’s not.”

“And you need my help to protect him—and the others,” Talia said, seeming thoughtful.

Bruce nodded.

Talia’s eyes darted to the right, upwards. “And this includes the—as my father calls him—Detective?”

Bruce’s muscles tightened a little at that. He wouldn’t admit his fear to Talia out loud about Tim, about the way her father regarded him—but he was afraid. Ra’s saw much potential in Tim when the boy had crossed paths with the Demon’s Head, and Bruce had taken great pains to make sure they didn’t cross paths again.

“Yes. Including him. My son.”

Talia smiled a little at that. “Always making the brood bigger, aren’t you? The two new ones are an interesting pair—siblings, correct?”

“Yes, they’re siblings,” Bruce said quietly.

Talia seemed to sense his discomfort. She walked over to him with a sigh. “Beloved, if you think I’d do something to hurt you, with our son involved, I’m afraid we’ve been apart too long. What do you need me to do?”

Bruce replied, voice slightly unsteady, “I need you to use the corruption in the system to get them back—in a nonviolent way. No bodies, no torture, no assault. It’s the only way to set things right.”

Talia considered this, and smiled a little—an affectionate look. “You always preferred a strange code of violence. But, I see the sense in it. It will be done, beloved.”

And that was too easy. Bruce added, “And what about your father?”

Talia raised an eyebrow. “I don’t wish for Damian to be absorbed into my father’s plans. They’re decidedly... _disadvantageous_ for Damian. The less my father knows about him, his whereabouts, and what he can hold against him, the better.”

Bruce started to talk, but she interrupted him, an almost hurt expression.

“Beloved. I would do anything for those I love, as I have proven.”

And he had to trust she would. That she wouldn’t harm any of the other children or put them in harm’s way, for her own sake or Damian’s sake.

She pecked him on the cheek, saying, “One day, we’ll share more than this again,” and then she left the room.

Bruce let out a sigh. They wouldn’t, he was sure of that, but protesting now was not wise.

–

It was a matter of about a day before Talia al Ghul used her influence and underhanded tactics to resolve the issue.

Damian and Cullen were brought home first.

Damian solemnly walked up to his father, nodded to him, as if to say, ‘I have succeeded. Cullen is alive still.’

Bette squeezed the daylights out of Cullen, exclaiming, “Oh god, you made it, you made it, way to go, baby gay!” and crying. He cried too, to be fair.

They were kind of attached, to put it lightly.

Dick swooped Damian up in a hug, not even questioning the price tag. “Little D! Oh my god, look at you, you’re home!”

“I am aware, Grayson,” Damian grumped, but he held Dick back, head resting against the elder’s shoulder. In fact, he looked like he wanted to never let go or be put down.

Cass was quick to get in on the affection, rubbing Damian’s back and pressing a kiss to the side of his head. A clear ‘I missed you.’

Bruce couldn’t be much more relieved—the only way would be when Tim and Harper were home too.

Dick passed off Damian to him, and despite the kid rolling his eyes at being handed off ‘like a baby,’ he still held tightly to Bruce. And Bruce held tightly back, his arms starting to shake a little as it sank in that Damian was safe. Was home, and so was Cullen, the long nights worrying over them were over.

And Damian didn’t comment, just held on.

Bruce murmured, “I missed you. I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too,” came the small voice, like Damian was almost scared to admit it. Like he felt like admitting he wanted to be here would mean being whisked away again. And it only made Bruce hold him tighter.

Bruce could see, as he put Damian down, that Cass was petting Cullen’s head, that Dick was standing off to the side but smiling.

He knew Roy and Jason wanted to be here, that Steph and Tam and Luke, and probably Tiff, would be by later. That Babs was accompanying Harper.

He still couldn’t wait until Tim and Harper were home. Until the whole family was there. 

Harper was next to come home, as they sat and waited, drinking tea.

Barbara wheeled up their ramp, a smile on her face. It was a look of relief more than joy. 

Harper was roughed up, indeed missing her lip ring, but she immediately let out a cry and practically tackled Cullen, holding him tight. She looked like she would never let go, and that made Cullen start crying, much to his embarrassment.

“Hey, yeah, so Cullen, you wouldn’t even believe what happened when I was locked up and shit,” Harper said, wiping away his tears with her sleeves.

And so went stories that somehow took something horrific and made it funny, as Harper was prone to do.

“Like, and this bitch is all like, ‘Gimme your soap, bitch’ and I’m like, doesn’t she have any fucking soap, right, so naturally I had to fight her and this petty-ass bitch ripped my goddamn lip ring out, look at it, but I did what Bruce taught me and shit, so those assholes didn’t mess with me much after that, right?”

Bruce blanched a little, hoping it wasn’t some permanent damage inflicted. But he was still glad to have Harper home.

And then the screen door swung open, and Tim was home.

He was flanked by Jason and Roy, who had followed him back, and ordinarily, there would be a social worker explaining everything—but apparently they’d just been in a hurry to cover their asses.

Bruce barely got to see Tim’s face before his teenage son had his arms around him, murmuring, “I knew we’d be all right. I knew you’d protect us.”

And Bruce could finally relax for a moment, holding Tim tightly. 

“And guess whose fucking license to foster is revoked?” Jason said, an angry yet cocky look on his face. And Bruce could read the tension in Roy’s posture as well.

“The Fullers’.” Bruce didn’t have to guess.

“Bingo. Turns out, when you fucking punch a kid, you’re probably not well suited to raise em, you know?”

And Tim pulled away a little bit to protest, saying, “I’ve been through way worse, it’s not even--”

Bruce pulled him back, angry that anyone would raise a hand against his kids, and saying, “You know it’s still not okay, right?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah,” he sighed, and he seemed to shake a little, tension seeming to release a rock solid grip on his body. “Yeah. I’m just glad to be home.”

“I’m glad you’re home too.”

Bruce didn’t know it then, but it was about that time that a cousin returned to the area, the _country_ , and she would definitely have an impact on things, as the text she sent him only a few days later would show.

And he could only hope that things had gone this smoothly. That there was no price to be paid.

He wasn’t optimistic, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It probably will have a price Bruce doesn't realize. That is the nature of abusive people--or people with behaviors instilled in abusive households. Talia is not the abusive shit that Ra's frankly is, but she's still not a healthy, well adjusted parent--or possibly even a good one.
> 
> She does love Damian, though. 
> 
> I hope this is okay. I feel a little scatter rn.


	76. The Ninja Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim has disappeared, only a few weeks after coming to stay with Bruce.

Tim had run away.

This thought pounded in Bruce’s head, as he frantically pounded pavement, certain he wouldn’t be able to see Tim from his van.

He was a scared child, only with him a few weeks, and it had been too much—he’d run.

Bruce couldn’t think of anything he’d done, but good god, he was scouring his head for a reason. For any reason Tim might run away. And in this neighborhood, he really didn’t want him out alone.

Yes, criminals were cowed by the Batman, but that didn’t mean nothing would happen to Tim.

The boy was still easily confused, still scared, still flinching at the slightest raised voice or hand—and that was a perfect mugging victim or worse.

How could he let this happen?

The asphalt was still warm from the day, the night pleasantly warm, like a dark blanket. The sky was slightly tinged purple, and it was one of those nights Bruce knew for the kids who would stay out later than ever if they could. He’d been one of them.

Dick and Jason had been those kids.

And Tim...he didn’t think Tim was one of those kids.

He was wearing the almost baby blue hoodie, the one that had some logo on it for some lawncare company that belonged to his parents’ friends, and Bruce hoped to god that it meant he would be easy to spot in his case.

He wasn’t losing Tim too, not in a few weeks’ time, not ever.

The acidic light of the bus stop, however, illuminated a small boy in a baby blue hoodie, and all his terror left him like it was washed out with a tide of water. He headed over there quickly, and hesitated at the entrance to the simple plastic and metal structure. “Tim?”

Tim’s head swiveled towards him, and his blue eyes met somewhere near Bruce’s nose for just an instant, fear in them, before he quickly ducked his head down in shame. He pulled his knees up to his chest, a protective curl going on there. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly.

Bruce sighed, carefully approaching Tim and sitting down near him. He might have kneeled had it not been for the potential for glass to be on the ground.

Among other unsavory things to have stuck in your knees.

“Tim, you scared me--”

“I’m sorry!” Tim blurted it out, curling further away from Bruce.

Bruce sighed. He swallowed down the fear that had gripped him only moments before, and said, “I’m not mad, Tim, it’s okay. I promise I’m not going to hurt you, I just want you to be safe.”

Tim chanced a glance at him, and his eyes were red-rimmed. “I just—I have to go home. I _have to._ ”

Bruce’s heart broke a little for Tim. Dick had had some similar feelings—an urge to be home. The difference being, he didn’t have his old home or family, and Tim did—but his was not safe. And there was almost no reason to long for it, except it being all he knew.

“Tim, it’s not safe there right now. The courts will decide what to do, but until then--”

“I’ll be good, though, I won’t make him mad again,” Tim insisted, “It’s okay, it was just one time, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Bruce fought down the bristling beast inside who thought it should be Tim’s _father_ making such declarations. Promising to never hit his son again, apologizing, trying to make it right--

All accounts indicated he wasn’t.

Bruce ever so carefully settled a hand on Tim’s shoulder, wishing he would look him in the eyes. “Tim, it’s not your job to make sure your parents don’t hurt you. It’s their job to control themselves and be the adult, the parent, in your family.”

Tim didn’t look like he believed him. “But I make them mad. I do things and I make them mad.”

Bruce’s heart clenched at that, wondering how many times that line had been used against Tim. ‘If you didn’t make me so mad,’ or ‘Why do you keep making me so mad?’ 

As if it was a toxin that Tim deliberately injected his parents with, and not an emotion they had the full capability to control themselves. As if they didn’t create their own problems, or that problems didn’t exist outside of the one horrible part of their lives: their child.

“Tim, please come back with me. I just want you to be safe, and you’re not safe out here.”

“I’m safe out here,” Tim replied, blinking at him. “I’ve left home dozens of times.”

This was a surprise. Bruce must have shown his shock on his face, because Tim hastened to explain.

“I mean, I didn’t run away from home, that’s not okay, but I just left for some hours during the night, when my parents didn’t care.” He said ‘didn’t care’ like it was the waxing and waning of the moon—a normal occurrence. 

His head ducked down further. “I like being out here. It’s dark, and sometimes quiet, and no one notices me, but in the good way.”

“And your parents had no idea?” Bruce said, still a little shocked at the idea of Tim simply roaming the streets of _Gotham_ at night.

“No. I know how to sneak out of the house really well,” Tim admitted. “Sometimes, I pretend I’m a ninja. That makes it easier.”

And...that fit with Tim and his behavior. The way Bruce almost never heard him come into a room, the way he seemed to simply disappear from places, the way he was quieter than a mouse.

Bruce sighed softly. “Well, that is an impressive talent, for certain. But, please don’t use it to sneak out and run away. I was very worried about you, and it just isn’t safe out here, especially with you healing from a head injury.”

Tim gave a small nod.

“How about we go home, I make you some soup or hot cocoa, and we talk? Do you want to do that?”

Tim looked reluctant, but nodded.

Bruce breathed out a sigh of relief, and took Tim’s hand. At first, Tim seemed a little surprised, but then his smaller fingers wrapped around Bruce’s, and he followed along back to the house.

It was a long night, but it was one of the wake ups from Bruce’s deep depression.

Because Tim needed him, not only part of him, and it meant he had to come out of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny Tim is like me--I would love to leave the house without people knowing for long periods, especially at night.
> 
> Also had the whole 'runaway' urge, but it didn't work, cause I had nowhere to go, so eventually I'd come back. Usually no one would notice I was gone except possibly my twin. 
> 
> My poor autistic sis was gone for almost a whole day running away, and then came back, and no one knew she'd left. I felt awful for her.


	77. Let's Be Honest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette has a confession for Bruce. It is actually more of a relief for him than she probably thought it would be.

Bette had approached him with a worried look on her face—almost out of place with the falsely confident posture.

“I kinda need to talk to you,” she confided, twirling hair around her finger but also looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was nearby.

Bruce closed down the program for designing a flier for an open house for his dojo, and followed Bette to the privacy of the kitchen. He knew the boys were outside, Dick having a good time cheering Tim on over his poor ability to jump rope and Tam and Steph trying to teach him how.

Cass was upstairs. Roy was at the library, hoping to return with the library’s latest requisition of some Arthurian series.

Bette suddenly sat on the floor cross-legged, so Bruce joined her, sitting a couple feet away. “Okay. What is it?”

She sucked at her lip a moment, then said, “Okay, like, you know how I’m totally fucked up and shit?”

“Bette, you’re not fucked up--”

Bette made a closed mouth gesture, saying baldly, “I’m gonna need you to shush. Lemme talk.”

Bruce let the rather rude response go, knowing that she was trying to be honest with him. He just nodded.

“So, like, you know how I like Dick’s ass? Yeah, and it’s a really great ass and all, but like, I realized something, I think, you see. Like, I don’t think—uh, that is, I think that I’m not—well, I’m not _straight_.” She said it all rather fast, and toying with a peony bead bracelet that Cass had made for her.

And, this was not entirely a surprise. Maybe somewhat, but Bruce felt like this was actually probably progress rather than something horrible. He nodded, and said, “That’s okay, Bette, you don’t have to be straight.”

Bette let out a small laugh, and twisted the bracelet around her wrist. She picked at the capped sleeve of her glittery shirt. “Well, yeah. I just think, like, maybe I’m bi. Or maybe a lesbian. Or, or, something. I, uh, at least like girls, I think. I mean, they are fucking cute, right?” 

Her eyes darted up to his for agreement, uncertainty there in her eyes.

Bruce smiled back. “Yes, women and girls can be very cute.”

And at that, the uncertainty seemed to quickly fade from her face, and she smiled back. “Yeah, that’s totally true. I, uh, you think it’d be good if I tried to date? I mean, dated, cause, I could get somebody pretty easy, probably, but, uh--”

“If you want to date, it’s up to you,” Bruce said gently, “It’s just important to remember boundaries, and to be with someone who respects you and cares about you.”

“Like Steph and Tim. God, Tim is lucky—Steph’s really hot.” And then Bette seemed to flush a little, saying, “I’m not gonna try to steal Steph or anything, just, you know--”

“I know.” Bruce smiled back, because her concern was kind of sweet—and her and Tim not getting along made just a bit more sense. “If you’d like some books on relationships and stuff involving sexuality, I can get them for you. I want you to be ready to be in a relationship, and not get hurt because you didn’t know. I know you haven’t had very good models for a healthy relationship—it’s something that Tim and some of my other kids have struggled with too.”

Bette nodded, laughing a little. “I bet Dick didn’t have that problems with _Babs_.”

Bruce laughed a little too. That was somewhat true—not the same issues at all. And the boy—man, now—had certainly done more romancing than any of them.

Bette grinned, suddenly seeming pretty at ease. She tossed her hair, and said, “Yeah, so like, we’re totally cool, right?”

Bruce nodded. “We’re cool. And, Bette? I’m proud of you. I know it wasn’t easy to reach this point or talk to me about it.”

Bette jumped up at that point, grinning almost bashfully, and as she headed back out, presumably to go help with the jumping rope ordeal, she shouted, “Yeah, like, I’m totally gonna make that chicken thigh recipe I told you about, okay? Cause, yeah...you’re kinda awesome.”

As the screen door slammed shut, Bruce smiled to himself.

He was relieved to see Bette recovering, coming into her own. Being who she was meant to be and not who she’d been forced to be.

The shout of, “Tim, oh my god, do you know how to count beats _at all_?” would have sparked a disagreement in older days.

Now, however, it was a sure sign that Bette was about to get into teaching mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. I figure Bette starting to figure out her sexuality would be a good thing, cause before then it really didn't belong to her.
> 
> And it's made me think of my own 'figuring shit out' journey. Good times, even if my circumstances are very different.
> 
> (Also, will get to comments this evening--I love them, I just haven't had the opportunity to respond due to minimal internet. :P)


	78. Life is a Game...and so is Mario Kart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's nice to see his kids playing games and having fun for once.

It was an ancient Nintendo gaming system, but the kids enjoyed it well enough.

Damian was constantly growling about how if they were really racing, in real life, he would win, because this game’s physics were ridiculous and it didn’t match his proper reflexes—but he played anyway.

Tim was a strategic player—as much as one could be in Mario kart. He also had a tendency to go after Damian, what little one could, because, as he put it, ‘he’s going to go after me anyway, why make new enemies?’

But it was Harper and Cullen who took the cake.

If it was the four of them home and therefore the four of them playing, the version of Mario Kart they had demanded two player teams. And Tim and Damian could agree to forget their differences for the moment to defeat the unstoppable duo of Cullen and Harper.

“Drop!” Harper shouted today, and Cullen helpfully dropped bananas all in front of Tim and Damian’s kart.

“Come on!” Tim said, gripping his plastic controller hard as the kart spun. “Damian, they’re gonna win again!”

“Why don’t you get out and push the cart, then, Tim?” Damian snapped.

“That’s not how this game works!”

Harper cackled, and Bruce could see Cullen’s eyes sparkling deviously. 

“Suck it, Team Shitstain!” Harper crowed, and Cullen was laughing, tucked under Harper’s arm as they clicked away at their controllers.

“What? We’re not Team Sh—that’s not our name!”

“Ha, yeah, no, that’s you guys!” Harper giggled.

Damian growled, and Bruce could hear him snap the small joystick thing forward. He was watching from the chair. The cords for the controllers weren’t long enough to sit on the couch and play.

“Oh yeah? Then what’re you guys, Team Stupidfuck?” Tim’s eyes only flicked towards Bruce momentarily at cursing. He still, after all this time, seemed to have a physical reaction to cursing around an adult. 

“Pfft, no, we’re Team Kickass!” Harper said, “Drop!”

Cullen was grinning. 

Tim shouted, “No, Damian, you were supposed to block it!”

“In real life, I would never be hit by a green shell,” Damian sniffed.

“Don’t complain, Team Shitstain,” Cullen ribbed, looking over rather cheekily at the pair. “Someone’s got to lose.”

Harper was laughing pretty loudly at that point, and rubbed her brother’s head in approval.

It was all Bruce could do to focus on the book in front of him—a copy of _Ivanhoe_ that Tim and Cullen were supposed to work on. He’d been fortunate enough to get Harper and Cullen homeschooling too.

Harper’s needs were different, and she just could not focus on _Ivanhoe_ , which was a fairly thick book, so she was reading something that he could actually get her to read: _The Importance of Being Earnest, and Other Works by Oscar Wilde._ It was more to the point, very clever, and not condescending either.

Her math and other technical subjects were very good.

He had gotten the impression that it had been Cullen’s ‘job’ to do their reading assignments and relate the books to Harper, while Harper did her best to get them enough money to stay afloat.

Hence, Harper had a great imagination and intellect and knowledge of literature, but little focus for reading it.

And a colorful vocabulary, if Bruce was being honest.

“Fuckass bitchsnipes! Cullen, switch!”

He smiled, and closed _Ivanhoe._ He just sat, watching his kids have a good time with each other.

It was nice. After the ordeal with CPS, it was nice to see them relaxed, even if they were being kind of verbally aggressive and cursing a lot.

It wasn’t meant to hurt.

And that was enough for Bruce.

The game ended with Cullen and Harper winning (again) and Damian complaining that none of the older kids were home to be on his team.

“Read my mind,” Tim responded, jabbing Damian’s thigh.

It was a mark of changed times that he was able to do that without losing the finger.

“Don’t be sore losers, Team Shitstain!” Harper crowed.

Tim looked over at Damian. “Let’s play Risk. You and me against Cullen and Harper.”

And the smirk that spread over Damian’s face was devilish.

If there was anything that both of them worked well together in, it was their Lord of the Rings Risk. Cullen and Harper didn’t know what they were in for.

Bruce smiled, and got back to _Ivanhoe._

He was happy that they were happy, and that was enough right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! Fluff chapter ish. Kinda rambling, I guess. I hope you guys liked it. :P


	79. Don't Make Me a Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has decided Selina is a wonderful potential girlfriend for Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff!

Selina was someone that had been in Bruce’s life for a long time—for better or worse.

She’d smile at him, flutter her eyelashes in a way that somehow wasn’t ridiculous, sway her hips in a way that wasn’t necessary for the job—and he knew it was only around him, because a giggling Dick had told him she didn’t do it when it was just Dick and Jason. And then, of course, Dick had mimed out the walk.

That had Jason howling with laughter, a welcome thing, even if at Bruce’s expense.

“Okay, you’re very funny, Dick,” he replied, unable to really be mad.

Dick beamed at him. “Hey, me’n Little Wing wanna have a movie night tonight. I already got his favorite, Cinderella—“

“Cinderella isn’t my favorite!”

“—so I can just make toast pizza and we can have a brother night! So, you could do the Batman stuff alone tonight, if you want.”

If Bruce didn’t know better, he’d think Dick was hoping to set him up with Selina.

Scratch that. The deviously sparkling look in Dick’s eyes said this was exactly what was going on.

Bruce sighed. “Well, if that’s what you want. No burning the house down, have fun.”

Dick pumped his fist. “Yes!”

Bruce shook his head, saying, “I doubt anything eventful will happen while I’m out, but I hope you guys have a good time. Remember, just call the cell if something happens.”

“Of course,” Dick said in a too smug way.

Bruce just shook his head again, and headed to get his gear and head out.

It wasn’t an uneventful night.

He saved Selina’s life that night, the Catwoman on the run from a gang that she had somehow crossed. She had witnessed something she shouldn’t have, and Bruce had to intervene.

As the gang members were picked up by the police, he and Selina watched from the shadows.

She looked over at him, bruise blossoming on her chin near her lip, and smiled at him. “That was some rescue. Ordinarily, I’d be offended, but…”

She looked almost earnest. “I owe you one.”

Bruce sighed, but managed a slight smile, “I wouldn’t let you die.” Then he turned back to stern. “Don’t do it again.”

Selina smirked at him. “Cats have nine lives, you know. I’ll be okay.”

And she leaned in, pressing her lips to his. They were slightly glossy, soft, thicker than Talia’s and tasting of tea, somehow—

And Bruce pulled back, but not nearly enough. He wanted to kiss her again, but he’d seen how that had ended with Talia.

She smirked at him, red-pink lips teasing. “A hero’s reward, right? Save me again if you want more.”

And she disappeared into the night.

Bruce sighed. He couldn’t deny that he’d watched her go, that he felt the attraction…but it wouldn’t be fair to her, to the boys, to anyone. And she was a criminal. Not that it had stopped him from his relationship with Talia, who was probably a worse criminal, but…

Let it go.

Some things were more important, in Bruce’s mind.

He wasn’t meant for the wife and dog and picket fence. No, atypical households seemed to be his standard, and he knew how to handle that. He knew how to make it the best he could for others who would be stuck in atypical households.

So, he headed home.

Dick was awake, Jason sprawled on the ground with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn spread over him like sprinkles. Or like he’d pitched forward and upset the bowl in his exhaustion.

Dick grinned, jumping up and turning off the VCR—Bruce caught a couple seconds of Pete’s Dragon before he got there. “How’d it go? You look kinda flustered—was Catwoman there?”

And it hit Bruce—Dick was hoping he’d get together with Catwoman.

He really was.

“I saw her,” he admitted, “But, Dick, you know I’m not married for a reason, right?”

Dick seemed to deflate a little, but then he chirped, “But she’s really good for you! You get happy when you’re around her. I see it. Not like, weird happy, but, you like her. And she likes you.”

“Sometimes, that’s not reason enough,” Bruce said gently.

Dick pouted. “Can I still be her friend?”

Bruce chuckled. “Yes—with supervision.”

And that led into a plethora of jokes about Superman, which eventually woke Jason up, and set him to demanding to know how the ‘hook up’ had gone.

Dick really needed to stop gossiping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yeah, Jason's comment is somewhat age-inappropriate, but makes sense for his background, and it's kinda part of life, though Bruce does talk to him about it and redirect and shit.
> 
> Also! I broke 500,000 words on this website, so, I'm open to prompts/requests as celebration! Just for a bit, and within reason, but I thought it'd be fun. :)


	80. Red Should Be More Eye-Catching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce still can't believe how inattentive Green Arrow is in the field to Roy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, I had this idea this morning. :P Enjoy!

Working with, or at least around, Green Arrow was not Bruce’s idea of a good time. At all.

It was only being tolerated right now for pragmatic reasons.

Oh, and because of the tiny redheaded kid he had with him that Dick had taken a shine to. Roy. Bruce had looked it up on first seeing him, the child going by Speedy and being called his ‘sidekick’ by Green Arrow.

He was an amazing shot, but Bruce’s heart kept having to stutter or jump at the things he faced when Oliver wasn’t looking.

Roy was just a bit younger than Dick, and good god, Bruce wouldn’t let Dick out of his sight like that, wouldn’t turn his back in a fight.

It was one rescue from Dick, as he diverted a thug from nailing Roy in the back of the head, that preceded Queen, the Arrow, obliviously turning to Bruce and saying, “You see which way the freak went?”

They were trying to track down someone trafficking insane drugs—they were pleasurable enough at first, but wrecked the nervous system fast, leaving the person trapped in vicious nightmares. Permanently, or at least permanently without medical intervention.

It was horrific stuff.

It was in Star City as well, hence, the Arrow was here.

The ‘freak’ was a thin man who Bruce only knew so far as ‘Scarecrow.’

But that wasn’t what was angering him at the moment. He must have been scowling very visibly, as he watched his son double check Roy’s head, trying to be inconspicuous in doing so, small frown evident.

“What’s your deal?” Queen wanted to know, “He’s going to escape.”

“Speedy.”

“No, it’s called—oh. Oh, right.” Arrow turned, and called, “Come on, Speedy, keep up.”

Bruce’s blood boiled a little, wondering how fucking oblivious Arrow could be when he was such an excellent detective—at times. He personally wouldn’t praise the rich man too highly. “He got hit in the head—not that you saw it.”

_Or prevented it,_ went the unspoken accusation, hanging heavily in the air.

He could imagine Queen blinking behind his mask, looking back to Roy. “Hey, Speedy, you okay?”

And Roy pulled away from Dick, crossing his arms and snapping, “I’m fine!” in what might have been a tough voice had he been older and his voice wasn’t squeaking. And he ran to catch up to Green Arrow.

Arrow nodded, and looked to Bruce. As if to say, _See? He’s good._

Bruce could have strangled him. He came towards Roy, the worried look from Dick more than enough to tell him there was a good chance Roy was not fine, but Arrow was already briskly heading in the other direction, Roy tagging along like a brilliant red shadow.

“Batman, if you can’t keep up, we can finish this investigation ourselves.”

And Bruce grit his teeth, and looked at Dick, a silent, _If we don’t follow them, Roy is not gonna be all right,_ and Dick nodded, flitting along behind him to catch up from where he’d been standing.

That night was fortunately relatively uneventful, if nerve-wracking, watching Roy’s balance be just a bit off but denied an opportunity to help him, the boy deflecting just as easily as the man who should be looking out for him.

Dick didn’t seem confused when they got home and Bruce hugged him,or really surprised. He did murmur, however, “Roy needs to come home with us, like Jason.”

And Bruce wished he could do that. “Roy has a parent, even if he is incompetent. We can’t.”

“That’s stupid,” Dick complained.

Bruce just sighed, knowing there wasn’t much he could do. “I know.”

He knew he couldn’t really justify Roy being taken away. Queen wasn’t outright bad, and with some direction, could probably be a good parent. If he was all that interested in being a parent.

But there wasn’t much he could do on that front. Queen definitely didn’t trust him.

He wasn’t sure if he wanted them to not come back to Gotham, or if he was hoping they would. It was hard to watch, but good to know Roy was okay, and Dick cared about the kid a lot.

It was complex.

But he watched as Dick carefully checked on Jason, who had so recently come to live with them and was curled tightly in a corner of his bed, and he got the feeling Dick was exactly the kind of kid to get the idea to take in any kid they found.

Bruce only wished things were that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Oliver is not a bad person, he's just not a good parent. He's more interested in a buddy relationship, and doesn't really realize that he needs to be Roy's parent. He also kind of subconsciously looks down on him, because he's the child and Oliver's the adult, I guess.
> 
> And Roy is like 12 and of course he's going to insist he's fine. :P


	81. Like a Kitten to a Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killer Moth's daughter, Kitten, turns out to have an obsession of sorts with Dick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Using the Teen Titans character, who blackmailed Robin into going to her prom with her and was generally rather gross and self-absorbed and petty.

The problem with Dick being, well, attractive and easygoing and outright flirtatious, was that it attracted attention.

Most of the time, it wasn’t a problem, and actually Bruce was proud of his son for being so friendly and outgoing. He had a lot of confidence, and while Bruce generally felt he couldn’t take credit for that, he was still glad he hadn’t destroyed it. That Dick was so strong and well-adjusted.

He didn’t hold it against Jason that he wasn’t the same; they came from entirely different lives, and were entirely different people.

And Jason shone in places Dick didn’t at times as well.

But, the issue with Dick: he was like a light. And moths were attracted to that light.

Dick seemed positively frazzled when he made it back that night. He’d been on a short, solo patrol, leaving Jason with Bruce, and within the distance that he could call them on the walkie talkie and get timely assistance.

Bruce looked at him, worried, and asked, “Everything go okay?”

He trusted his son would have called them if things were serious. But, anyone could have a lapse of judgment.

“Uh, yeah,” Dick said back, and the lack of certainty clinched that it was not okay. That something was bothering him.

Jason seemed to pick up on it. He was all of fourteen, and fairly perceptive to Dick by now. They’d been brothers for four years, just about. “Yeah, you look kinda fucking pale.”

Dick snorted. “I told you, I’m good.”

Jason’s shoulders set tightly. He didn’t seem to want to outright accuse his adored older brother of lying, but then he did, shoving at his shoulder and snapping, “You’re a fucking liar! Something happened!”

Dick’s hands went up defensively, as he said, “Okay, okay! Calm down, it wasn’t anything big!”

Bruce watched with concern, but gave Dick a chance to tell him. He didn’t think he needed to pressure him.

“So...you remember that moth guy? Killer Moth?”

Jason snorted. “Who could forget his lumpy ass?”

Dick didn’t laugh. “Yeah, well...he has a daughter.”

Jason’s head tilted, a sort of horror in his tone. “Is she hurt?”

And that got Dick laughing, which was a little disturbing. Bruce came over to take a closer look at him, and make sure he was okay.

Dick quieted at that, murmuring, “No, no, she’s not hurt. On the contrary, she’s a pain. Sorry, it was funny.”

Bruce could tell it wasn’t that funny. He didn’t suspect something huge had gone down, but something that unnerved Dick for sure. He held out his arm, an invitation, and waited for Dick to move under the arm, holding him in a one-armed hug. “Do you want to talk about what happened at home?”

Dick nodded.

Jason looked a little horrified.

They drove back, got inside, and Jason made a beeline for the couch, sitting in tight posture, watching Dick like he was a grenade. His eyes were wide, stripped of his costume and helmet and therefore his face was on display. Bruce felt bad for him, because he realized he should have reassured him somehow.

The kid was pale.

Dick settled next to him, and murmured, “It’s okay, Little Wing, I promise.”

Bruce didn’t know that it was, and he knew Dick would probably say it was to maintain a safe atmosphere. A comfortable one. He cared a lot about Jason feeling safe.

But it might not be big at all.

Dick started before Bruce could ask, as he sat on the other side of Dick. “It’s, uh, his daughter. She took pictures of me, and, uh, she said she’s going to put them on the internet, cause...”

He trailed off.

Bruce’s brow crinkled. “She took pictures? Why?”

“She said I had a great ass, and it was, uh...” Dick reddened. “I told her not to, but she did anyway.”

Bruce nodded, feeling somewhat angry. Dick was used to performing, but it sounded like the girl was very invasive.

Dick continued, “She said she’d like to do, uh, filthy things to my ass. And-and she, made, a weird motion, uh...” 

Jason snarled. “I’m gonna kill that bitch, she doesn’t get to just--”

“It’s okay, Jay, she only took pictures--”

“No, it’s not okay, Dick, she’s being a bitch! What’s her name? Where’s she live? I’m gonna kick her ass!”

Bruce had to intervene, even though he was mad too. “Dick, it made you very uncomfortable, right?”

Dick nodded, adding, “But she really didn’t, you know, touch me or anything, I move too fast--”

Jason snarled again.

Bruce sighed, wrapping his arm around Dick again. “I know it might not seem that way, but she crossed a line. Big time. How would you feel if some guy was talking that way to Babs? Or Jason?”

“I’d kick their ass, but she’s just a girl, and she was wearing pink PJ’s, and, and...it’s just different.” Dick looked down at his knees. “You know I don’t care about people thinking I look good, right?”

Bruce nodded with a sigh. “I know. But it’s not okay for her to harass you like that, or take your picture without your permission.”

“Journalists do it.”

Bruce had to concede that one. “Personal use is very different, though. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Dick scoffed. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just hope I never see Kitten again.”

Jason was folded in on himself, angrily hunched.

Bruce could see he wasn’t going to be able to convince Dick to admit it was more serious than he considered it, or to admit how he felt about it. It made him mad, but instead, he got up, and made soup.

The boys were watching _An American Tail_ by the time he got back, the little mouse in the midst of meeting a cat.

He handed Dick a mug of soup, then Jason. Both boys ate quietly.

And Bruce got on the computer.

He contacted Barbara, and explained the situation—and she said she’d have no problem dismantling Kitten Walker’s Livejournal page, nosirree.

He smiled, and joined his sons.

He could imagine the wrath of Barbara Gordon—he had no doubt the pictures and all traces would be gone by morning.

Maybe it wasn’t the most ethical, but neither was what Kitten did. And they couldn’t make a complaint in that sense.

Amazingly, both Dick and Jason drifted off, and Bruce finished the movie as the only one awake. And he hoped this Kitten thing was over, would be over if she realized it wouldn’t be tolerated.

Dick didn’t deserve treatment like that, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! It's not entirely ethical, but Bruce wants to protect Dick. He's around seventeen, I'd say.
> 
> And Kitten is not totally obsessed with Dick, thank god, but she is likely to do the sexual harassment thing. Plus, pictures of Dick Grayson's ass are totally going to make Fang (her on and off boyfriend) jealous.
> 
> (Lemme know if this is all weird. Sometimes, I have difficulty with such topics.)


	82. Unsurely Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talia sees Bruce again, and Bruce gets some scant answers about Jason's resurrection.

Talia had shown up in his life again sometime after Jason did.

It was a tense standoff, him and Roy in the warehouse they’d just trashed and Talia looking down on them from the catwalk.

It had been drugs. Not the sort that Roy was addicted to, but rather counterfeit cancer pills. Shit that was being sold as extremely expensive treatment, but in actuality doing nothing or worse than nothing. 

The others were outside or in different parts, doing their jobs.

Cass and Steph were with Bette.

Dick was with Tim.

He trusted Dick most to make sure his youngest son wasn’t snatched again, and Bette felt most comfortable with Steph, but he didn’t want just the two of them alone, given their lack of fighting experience in comparison to the others. Steph was on par with Tim, Bette not quite.

And Jason was better than Tim.

“Talia.” He said it flatly, maybe with less rage than Roy seemed to expect.

He pointed an arrow at Talia, and Bruce could see the tension there. Roy had never been close to Jason, but he was close to both Tim and Bette. 

She looked down at him, green eyes mysterious. “I see Jason hasn’t killed any of you.”

Her tone didn’t sound regretful. Bruce wasn’t sure if that was good. “No thanks to you.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. “I would think you’d be more grateful. Last I checked, he was dead. Now he’s alive.”

Bruce let out an angry huff through his nose, tamping down his temper. “He nearly killed Tim. He traumatized my kids. He put us through hell.” His voice sharpened. “And he’s clearly been through Hell. How could you put him in that _pit?_ ”

Talia still seemed a little bemused. “What other methods do you have for resurrection? I’ve used it multiple times.”

Bruce’s heart clenched in his chest. “You had no right--”

“What father argues that his son being dead is better than him being alive?” Talia queried, head tilted a little. 

Bruce couldn’t answer that. If she didn’t get it, there was no explaining it. Of course he wanted Jason to never have died, but that didn’t mean...it didn’t make it okay. It didn’t make resurrection okay.

It was hard to explain.

“You want me to shoot her?”

Talia laughed a little at Roy’s words. “Go ahead and try. You’ll eat that arrow.”

She seemed to lose her mirth when Bruce moved, a protective look. He said, flatly, “You need stay away from my children. Whatever we had, even though I loved you, I can’t have my children mired in your family’s business. It will kill them, or destroy them.”

Talia blinked. She was quiet now, eyes seeming almost wet. Pondering.

She said, suddenly, “Jason has been told that you wanted him to die. I told him that were hoping he would, of the HIV, because he was such a problem. If you want to soothe him, maybe tell him you had no idea I did this. That I raised him from the dead. He was with me for months, and I told him you refused to come see him.”

Bruce’s throat was sore, closing a little. Him refusing to see Jason would devastate him without the pit flowing in his veins.

He didn’t know why Talia was telling him, but before he could say anything, she fled wordlessly.

He didn’t entirely understand Talia. But at least he probably knew what she’d told Jason.

“B, we got the last of the crates. Bonfire time?” Dick’s voice cut over the walkie-talkie.

Roy responded, “Yeah, bonfire time. We’ll meet you outside.”

Bruce was quiet the rest of the night, prompting curious or worried looks from his kids. The bonfire was handily done, the pills not about to make poisonous fumes, and they simply watched the fire from their hiding places until it was burned down.

One thing Bruce knew, as they headed home: he had to find Jason.

He had to tell him he would never turn his back on him. 

And he had to hope Jason was still reachable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da! I feel like Talia didn't have evil intentions here, but doesn't have a good sense of morality, in some ways.
> 
> And poor Jay. :(


	83. Please Donate, Funds Will Support Abuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Drakes have made a small internet campaign to tell people of the evil of their son being snatched from them and procure donations towards fighting it legally.
> 
> Tim is not too happy about this.

Tim had a unique set of difficulties compared to Jason and Dick. Bruce supposed Jason and Dick’s difficulties were also fairly different, but they did have in common no one else claiming them, so to speak. A feeling of being unwanted or alone.

And maybe Tim had that feeling too, but the fact was, his parents were working harder than you’d expect to bring him back.

Tim had nearly dropped his laptop one day, a tiny choked noise coming from him, and put the computer down on the couch beside him, staring straight ahead.

This was a definite sign of distress, and Bruce came over. “What is it?”

Tim pressed his lips together a moment, then pointed to the computer.

Bruce looked.

What he saw was enough to make his stomach curdle.

There was a smattering of Tim pictures, widely varying over the years and some of very bad quality, or with poor subject, he supposed—Tim happening to glance in the direction of the camera at some event, or apparently not being the subject of the picture and simply being cropped around to be the focus.

The title of the page, however, was what was horrifying.

‘Bring Timmy Drake Home Legal Defense Fund’ blared at the top. A very nice picture of Jack and Janet graced the side, Janet somehow managing not to look like a shark for the camera, wearing a peach cardigan. 

‘Our son, Timothy Drake, was taken unlawfully from us. We weren’t given a valid reason, and flimsy evidence was offered of our supposed abuse. We’ve been suffering every day since, cut off from our only child. We can only suppose that, with the timing, Jack’s bold criticism of the local and state government got him in trouble, and this is how we’re being punished.’

Bruce had to swallow the bile in the back of his throat, and continue reading.

‘Jack’s had brushes with corrupt law enforcement before. On several occasions, he’s been wrongfully charged with driving under the influence, wrongfully charged with disturbing the peace, and accused of other crimes that he never committed. 

The culmination of this abuse by the government is the day that CPS came and ripped our child from our arms with no explanation. I have been devastated by this, and the multitudes of court appearances and evaluations are draining our spirits and our finances.

That’s why we’re asking for help. If you believe in bringing a child home to his family, and not allowing tyranny to continue, please donate whatever you can.’

Bruce could have punched the screen. He took a deep breath through his nose, and didn’t scroll down to see comments from people. He wasn’t certain he could handle it if they were supportive of the Drakes.

“They have over a thousand dollars in donations,” Tim murmured softly. “They have so many people who just…”

Believe them.

Those seemed to be the words Tim couldn’t say.

And Bruce sighed, and came over to Tim, on his knees next to the couch. He didn’t need to tower over him for this. “Tim, you know what happened. Just because they can convince _some_ people it didn’t happen, or that their version is true, doesn’t mean that you are wrong. It doesn’t mean you’re wrong for saying differently or remembering wrong—it means they don’t want people to know the truth, or that they can’t face the truth.”

Tim hunched forward a little, hands folded loosely in his lap. “But what if I _am_ wrong? What if I blew it all out of proportion?”

Bruce put a hand on Tim’s knee, getting him to look him almost in the eyes. “Tim. You have a fractured skull, and so many hallmarks of abuse in the ways you act, think, and feel.”

“But they rarely hit me, ever,” Tim responded, “It was an accident.”

“An accident is clipping your child with something you were carrying because you didn’t see them. An accident is stepping on your child because you didn’t see them on the floor. An accident is throwing something and not realizing your child was in the way. It’s not an accident to beat your child to the point you fracture their skull,” Bruce responded, “It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t happen often, it’s abuse no matter the frequency.”

Obviously, there were limits to that statement, but they didn’t apply to Tim’s case. And saying it would only give Tim a loophole.

Tim was quiet, and he looked like he might move towards Bruce, try to get a hug. But then he just sighed heavily. “If you say so. They’re going to get me back anyway.”

And Bruce couldn’t promise that wouldn’t happen, as much as he wanted to. Instead, he said, “Tim, it will get better. And you don’t know they’ll get you back, but if they do, it’s likely they’ll have parenting classes. And hopefully, they’ll have learned from this.”

Tim gave a shrug. “Sure.”

Bruce sighed, standing. “Would you like to help me make pudding? I was thinking of making some tapioca today.”

Tim nodded quietly, and stood as well.

They made pudding, and Tim’s mood seemed to lighten a bit, but not a lot.

Bruce hoped it would change for the better—how Tim felt, and his situation.

The boy didn’t deserve parents like that. No one really did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a thing I have seen in Homeschool stuff.
> 
> Frankly, HSLDA (Home School Legal Defense Association) will gladly defend child abusers and paint them as victims if it supports the cause. The cause being to present homeschool as the absolute best and fight any restrictions on it.
> 
> I've seen it from my side, supporting people whose children were callously snatched because the government wants to control us all, and now, on the outside, I've learned the true stories of the children, who were blithely ignored in this battle.
> 
> Most of the time, they really were abused. Whether it be living in subhuman conditions due to their parents deciding to 'live off the grid' without the know how, or literal beatings and keeping in cages and shit, it has happened, and it's unconscionable to defend them.
> 
> I could go on, so I will leave it be. I have strong feelings about covering up abuse in homeschool and religious groups.


	84. Not Dead to Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason can't get over what he did to Bette and Tim.
> 
> Bruce believes that means there is still a lot of hope for him.

Jason was so near and dear to Bruce. It was something he couldn’t quite explain to someone who wouldn’t _get_ that. There were cold people in this world who would expect him to stop loving a son like Jason, who had attacked his siblings and could be considered estranged. He left a trail of violence wherever he went, and Bruce didn’t know where he was staying.

But he loved him. He knew he could do better, he knew he’d been royally screwed up by Talia and a multitude of things, the least of which not his own death. Bruce couldn’t even fathom such a thing.

And that was why, when he came across the Red Hood curled against a dumpster, holding a sticky wound in his thigh, he didn’t accuse or come charging in. He slowly approached, knowing Jason wasn’t going anywhere and Jason probably knew that.

He didn’t want him afraid.

He seemed to be anyway, head jerking up and curling in further on himself, warning, in a sharp voice, “Stay back.”

Bruce stayed a solid six feet away. “Jason, you’re hurt. Let me help you, please.”

Jason let out a snort. It wasn’t really a humorous one, but more one that said Bruce was crazy. “No. I got it just fine.”

Bruce really didn’t want him bleeding out, which it looked like he might be in danger of doing. So he came closer, slowly.

Jason did not like that. “I said get the fuck away!”

His voice was louder, slightly more frantic.

And Bruce hesitated where he was. He sunk down a bit lower, not unlike when Jason was small, knowing his size could be intimidating. “Jason, I want to help you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I don’t fucking care if you hurt me, get away!” Jason snapped back.

“I care if I hurt you,” Bruce responded.

Jason was breathing a little faster, the sound evident through his helmet. A red fairly different from the smooth black he’d had before. “You shouldn’t.”

“I do. I love you,” Bruce said firmly.

“You really fucking shouldn’t,” Jason said, turning his head away. He still didn’t give any kind of permission to help. “Fuck, Bruce, I fucking—I beat that kid. I beat him like—like the beatings I got. He fucking _cried_ \--I didn’t care.”

His head ducked towards his knees. “And the girl. I beat her too, she fucking bit me—who the fuck taught her to do that? Goddamnit, I fucking—I felt good about it. Bruce, I liked beating the shit out of goddamn _kids_.”

“Jason…” Bruce could hear the pain in Jason’s voice, none of it from the injury on his leg. He wasn’t sure how to respond. 

“Fuck, Bruce, don’t you fucking get it? I’m bad. I’m a horrible fucking person, just like—I’m everything they said I’d be. So, you gotta fucking go—they’re good kids and shit, and you gotta take care of them. I’m just—I’m a lost cause. You shoulda figured that out when I stole your tires.”

And this time Bruce moved forward, gently moving Jason’s gloved hands from the wound. He could see the shock in Jason’s posture, that working to his advantage as he met no resistance. He could see the wound was a pretty deep knife wound, most probably, blood thick and dark. It looked like it had miraculously missed any major veins or arteries, which Bruce was grateful for.

He flipped out his multitool, and used the scissors to snip away the thick cloth around the wound.

“B-Bruce, fuck, what the hell—“

“I’m not letting you stay hurt like this. You need stitches,” Bruce said, almost gently, but not wanting to come on too strong. 

“Bruce, I beat the shit out of your kids, that’s not—“

“Yes, you did.” Bruce was quiet a moment, as he dabbed at the wound to clean it. “There’s no doubt that was wrong. That it’s put them through a horror. Tim still won’t sleep. Bette is on guard all the time.”

He could almost hear Jason’s chest tighten in the way he breathed.

“Jason, I know you know what you did was wrong. I know it’s not something you would normally choose to do. You say you liked it—but you’re horrified by that. You know it was wrong, and that’s—that’s a world of difference.” He didn’t say from who, but he thought Jason knew. “You are not who you were born to. You can be something else.”

He could hear a hitched, stuttering breath from Jason. “It’s not…Bruce, you don’t get it—“

Bruce stopped what he was doing, holding the gauze pad to the wound for a moment. He looked up at Jason, holding his gaze even though he couldn’t see his eyes. “Jason. You’re not branded forever. You aren’t evil. I know you’re a boy with a huge heart and pain no one else has had to deal with, and you’ve overcome so much. You don’t have to let this make you something you’re not.”

Jason broke the look, helmet ducking down again. “They’ll never be okay.”

Bruce was quiet. He said, softly, “I doubt it’ll be easy. You did hurt them badly. And it’s up to them to forgive you. But, Jason, they aren’t broken forever either. They’ve been through a lot, and they’re stronger than you might think. What you did hurt them, but they will make it through.”

It was a hard thing to articulate—Jason wasn’t absolved, Bette and Tim weren’t going to have an easy time or be unmarred completely by the ordeal—but Jason hadn’t destroyed them. He needed to know that he and they could heal.

Jason was quiet. Then, Bruce was pretty sure he was crying. “I’m fucking sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I know sorry’s just fucking nothing, but—I shouldn’t’ve believed Talia. I’m a fucking idiot, I’m sorry—“

Bruce wrapped an arm around Jason then. Jason didn’t fight him off, the clear misery in the sound of his crying enough to make Bruce just wish he’d known. He would have charged in, no doubts. He would have been there, if he could have only known. “You’re not an idiot. You were manipulated and put through hell, and I’m so sorry I didn’t stop it. Stop the—I wish I had known. There isn’t a day I don’t want to change what happened, Jason.”

Jason’s hands curled into Bruce’s jacket, almost hesitantly. Almost scared it would be taken, that he would be harmed for being vulnerable. For daring to want his father. Bruce could feel him shaking.

They were there, just hugging, crying, longer than Bruce probably knew. He really didn’t care.

When he drew back, the gauze pulled away and the stitches quickly put in, his heart felt weirdly trembling. Because what he was about to ask felt so important, so easily shattered.

“Jason,” he said, gently, as he looked at his son, “Please come home.”

And he knew he’d been hoping for too much, because Jason shook his head. “No. No, I just…I can’t. Dick can’t—I can’t.”

Bruce’s heart fell. He couldn’t force him to come home, but he hoped he knew he was always welcome. “I…understand. I want you to come home, but…” he swallowed. “You can always come home, Jason. I love you, and I want you to know you’re not alone.”

He could imagine Jason’s gaze was pained from the way the helmet tilted at him. But Jason stood abruptly, wincing and shaking his head. “I really can’t. I can’t. I coulda killed them, and they’d never forgive me. _I’d_ never forgive me.”

“You don’t know that,” Bruce argued.

But Jason sighed softly. “I think I do. I fucking do.”

And he turned to leave, boots crunching on the asphalt. “And, B?”

His voice was almost tentative. Bruce replied, ignoring the pain in his chest, “Yeah?”

“I…love you too. I’m sorry.” And he rushed off into the night, unable to stay for the emotional fallout he expected.

Bruce didn’t break down. He sat there quietly a moment, wishing his son would come home. Wishing it was simple, even though it really never had been.

And he went home with a heavy heart, to make sure Bette had come home from patrol with Steph and Roy and that Tim was not up on the computer, curled next to Cass who enabled his not sleeping.

He hoped one day they could make it all right.

And he hoped it was a day that would be soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am glad to make this update, and finally be writing my shit again. It was a rough week or so.
> 
> Jason is dealing with a shit ton of guilt, but I think the problem would be much greater if he didn't have guilt about it. Like, that's a sign there's something inside Jason that still cares. I guess?
> 
> For me, it's been a differentiator between me and Mum, cause when I do something shitty, I feel such guilt. It doesn't excuse what I did, but it reminds me that at least I know and I can do something to change. I am not her. I don't have to continue the cycle.
> 
> And Jason is worried.
> 
> About being bad. About becoming the same man his dad was.
> 
> There's a reason he's never really sought his dad out, after all.


	85. Selfishly Mothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A woman at the supermarket is angry at Stephanie for being a teen mom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slutshaming and other hateful shit.

Steph’s adoption agreement was with a very wonderful couple. Bruce felt like they, she, the little daughter, were all lucky in how it had worked out.

So far, her daughter, Ava, had Steph’s hair—very blonde. Probably more blonde than Steph, honestly. She had her adoptive parents’ last name, Helt, but Steph had chosen her first name.

They were at the supermarket in the nicer part of their area of Gotham. Steph often took Ava out places, and it was her, Ava, Bruce, and Tiffany Fox, or Tiff. Tiff was all of ten years old, and found it absolutely fantastic that her foster sister had a cute baby.

Ava was nearing a year now, and delighted in pudding, crinkling up her nose when she grinned for the camera, and losing her footwear.

Which, speaking of, she was missing both shoes and a sock. 

Tiff was leaning over into the baby seat of the cart, talking to Ava. “Look, look—I’m Superman!” And Tiff made a ridiculous voice and a ridiculous face, which set Ava giggling like she couldn’t stop. She had olive green eyes that were mostly shut in her glee at the joke, and her short blonde hair had been scraped into two ponytails.

“Superman!” Tiff said again, and Ava giggled uproariously. Tiff leaned in, pressing her nose to Ava’s, and said, “I’m sorry, I mean my name is…Superman!”

Bruce was having a hard time not smiling at all the baby giggles. He could see Tiff’s hair tickling Ava’s face, watch as the delighted baby looked Tiff in the eyes with a sort of gleeful camaraderie. 

Steph returned with the milk—well, cow’s milk and almond milk. Luke was allergic to dairy. Hence, going all the way here.

Bruce had picked up some things while he was here—it was a sale on ground chuck and some other things that would be very nice to have for their meals. 

“Ta da! Super Steph to the rescue!” Steph declared, putting the cartons in the cart.

“Mama!” Ava squealed excitedly, looking to Steph and holding out her arms to be picked up. Ava wasn’t always this excited to see Steph, to be fair, but Tiff tended to wind her up. So, everything was a bigger deal than usual.

It was also interesting to Bruce that Ava called both Melody Helt and Steph mama. It just had a slightly different sound depending on who she meant.

Steph scooped her up, saying, “You know, I swear you’re a load of bricks in a diaper, Aviator.”

Bruce smiled at that, and looked to Tiff. “Could you find Ava’s sock and shoes? She ditched them again.”

Tiff shook her head. “Maybe you guys should just let her be Tarzan, and never wear shoes again. I think she’d like it.”

“If we lived in a jungle that wasn’t Gotham, maybe,” Steph joked, “Don’t worry, Tiff, one day Ava will get your shoes for you. I bind her by unbreakable vow!” She grinned at Ava. “Right, honey?”

Ava giggled at that.

Bruce watched Tiff go down the aisle, and headed in the general direction himself. “I’m going to grab some cooking oil—they’ve got good prices here. You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, totally. We’re awesome!”

Ava said, “Bye, bye bye!” She was very enthusiastic, having learned the concept of saying bye and eager to use it.

Bruce laughed a little, waved goodbye, and went to go get the cooking oil.

Tiff was further down the aisle, spotting the sock and shoes excitedly. She was clearly pretending this was an adventure, though what kind was not quite clear to Bruce. He kept an eye with a smile, hearing Tiff hum as she snatched up the last item--a shoe.

She caught up to him, saying with an air of knowledge, "I know you were watching me the whole time, Mr. Wayne. It's okay, though, cause it probably makes you feel better."

Bruce couldn't help but laugh, seeing her grin up mischievously at him, quite aware she was funny. "Yes, Tiff, you're right. I'm afraid to be alone in the supermarket."

Tiff giggled, and responded, "Don't worry, I got your back." She strode ahead, fluffy tutu making her a less than imposing sight, and Bruce just shook his head.

She was his student at his dojo as well as a family friend. He knew she was confident for a reason.

Suddenly, the air of happy confidence went out of her posture, and the sound of a wailing baby registered. It was Ava.

Tiff and Bruce didn't _race_ , per se, but they did walk very fast.

And what Bruce saw made him furious.

Some middle aged woman with a floral print shirt and tiny gold hoop earrings was railing on Steph. He caught the tail end of, "...so selfish to keep that baby when you could have given it to parents who can't have kids!"

Steph was desperately trying to calm Ava, but Bruce could see both the anger and the insecurity in her posture.

"My husband's sister has been trying to adopt for two years, and selfish bitches like you just want to put those poor babies through poverty so you can collect food stamps!"

Bruce got in between, saying loudly, "Ma'am, please stop harassing her, or I'll call the store's security."

The woman gaped for a moment, and said, "I'm not _harassing_ this-this whor--"

"Ma'am," Bruce said more loudly, "You are making a baby cry and her mother upset. She's been through enough, please stop harassing her."

He could see the woman's cheeks redden as other customers were watching, noticing due to Bruce's volume. She sputtered, "Well, just--I was just trying to help."

And she hurried on, not another glance at Steph or Bruce. 

Tiff hugged Steph tightly, saying, "That lady's a bitch."

Another woman came over, and Bruce tensed, but this woman had long gray hair and a sympathetic expression. She handed Steph a packet of animal crackers, saying, "If she's hungry. I hope you know you're being very brave, and people like that aren't worth your time."

Steph nodded, and Bruce felt some relief. "Thanks."

The woman smiled, and said, "She's a very beautiful girl. You must be very proud."

As Ava ate the crackers and stopped crying, though still redfaced, Steph hiked her higher on her hip, clearly still a little embarrassed by the whole ordeal.

The woman headed on, and Tiff started putting on Ava's shoes.

Steph looked to Bruce, saying, "Are we ready to go home?"

It wasn't with the desperation of a young Tim, nor the anger of a young Jason. More an 'I'm tired but okay' tone. 

And Bruce nodded. "We're good to go."

He didn't say so this time, not wanting to lay it on thick, but Steph was brave. That was something he'd realized even before she was pregnant.

She was a tough girl, and faced the world with a bravado that fooled people into thinking she wasn't frightened. But that was what bravery was: doing things that you're scared of doing anyway. And he hoped Steph knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is a surprisingly prevalent thing in some 'pro-life' circles. It disgusts me a lot, cause like, ew. A) if you're going to oppose abortion, you need to support the births that follow and B) what is respecting life and people in tearing them down for keeping their own child and C) to imply that people who can't have kids deserve children like some kinda prize? 
> 
> There is some messed up discourse about adoption in cases like these. Many people push for no contact ever again kind of adoptions, but unless the mother (and/or father) is outright dangerous or abusive or so on, it's actually way healthier for everyone involved if the birth mother has contact with her child, and is involved in their life.
> 
> Researching this issue has made me sad for birth mothers like teen moms, cause there is often so little care for them. It's a system that needs changed.
> 
> Cause when you adopt, you're not getting a new blank slate child, even if they're infants or newborns. And people who adopt infants because they can't 'have their own kids' seem not to realize this far too frequently.
> 
> I'm all for adoption, but it needs to be done right, with care for the birth mother and care for the child, instead of such a focus on adoptive parents.
> 
> (Some of the icky things I've heard are downright bone-chilling involving adoption, such as someone's sister who declared that she'd adopt so the kids would 'love her forever for saving them.' Full body shudder at that.)


	86. Tchaikovsky and Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian has issues in public sometimes. Bruce needs to learn how to connect with his son and his needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This contains autistic meltdown stuff. I am not autistic, so I'm not gonna claim I have a perfect representation here, but I have done my best.

Damian in public presented surprising difficulties.

The boy could be outright hostile, and wouldn’t generally acknowledge he was getting upset until it was too late. If he came near a meltdown, Bruce would have to act fast—if not, he had to keep people out of the way and try to reassure Damian.

One method that worked very well early on they only learned by accident.

Damian was not socially incapable. He had a quick wit at times, was hardly shy, and had little issue making known what he wanted. 

What he wasn’t good at, however, was asking for what he needed, such as to leave right now immediately. He’d stay there if only in order to not admit he was weak and the sounds were too much and the people were too much and he just wanted to go home.

One such incident in a grocery store had people giving Bruce dirty looks. It wasn’t clear if they thought he was a horrible parent and Damian was a horrible child or if they just thought he was a horrible parent. Either way, it irked him.

There was nothing like having your child lose it in public, Bruce quickly learned. The screaming was more than enough to make his panic response try to kick in, not to mention attract everyone’s attention, and Damian had a tendency to flail—and also strike at Bruce or anyone who tried to contain him.

The thing that told Bruce that it was not a tantrum, and something that helped point him in the direction of what caused them, was that Damian was clearly utterly humiliated afterwards. His posture slumped, he curled in on himself some, and wouldn’t look people in the eye. If he had a hood, he pulled it up. It was rare he didn’t have a hood.

Also, no kind of bargaining or placation would stop it. Not that Bruce was the type to bribe his kids, but he wasn’t sure entirely what was going on at that moment.

He didn’t enjoy the looks people were giving him the times he got Damian out either, but he was sure Damian enjoyed them even less.

He looked kind of like he wanted to kill everyone for witnessing that—or himself.

Cass volunteered one day to come along to the grocery store, delaying them a half an hour due to her part time job, but meeting them there. As they walked into the store, she kept an eye on Damian, shooing Bruce ahead and going at a slow pace with him to find a couple of items on the list.

“Cai—Cassandra, this is ridiculous,” Damian grumbled, but followed his sister anyway. 

She had her shoulder bag. It was one she’d saved for, and Bruce wasn’t certain why she’d brought it. Still, he disappeared down the aisles, getting everything in the cart. It was actually faster without having to watch for Damian.

The boy concerned him. A lot. He couldn’t even imagine the horrors he’d been through. And Damian wasn’t about to share.

And the way he’d behaved towards his siblings was disturbing. Not even mentioning the ‘I’m the real son’ declarations he made. He knew how much that hurt some of his siblings, Tim especially.

But, as Bruce put a sack of rice into the cart, he figured they would find a way. Figure out how to help Damian. 

He wasn’t _bad._ He was hurt.

There was a huge difference.

Bruce managed to locate Cass and Damian after getting everything but their couple of items, and he had to smile when he saw it. 

Cass and Damian were seated next to the bathroom, where a bench was. Damian had his hood up, head ducked down a little, and he was clearly wearing headphones. Cass held the old portable CD player on her knee, and kept watch.

He didn’t know what music was playing, but he no doubt it was music, and it was calming. 

He came over and nodded to Cass. She nodded back. Her face said, ‘See? He’s calm.’

And Bruce wondered how much more he would be able to understand if he just saw it differently. Looked for different cues like Cass did.

He said, “It’s time to go. You think he’ll be all right?”

Cass gently nudged him, and Damian looked up. He slid off the headphones wordlessly, a scowl on his face—but not the tense one Bruce had seen before. More for appearances.

“You’re correct, Cassandra. That is Tchaikovsky.” He stalked towards the cash register.

Bruce smiled, a bit of relief in his chest. As tough as Damian’s meltdowns were on him, he could only imagine how much tougher they were on Damian, and it was good to see him in one piece.

They left the store without incident.

For now, this was a solution. And Bruce hoped to understand the son he hadn’t known about for a decade.

He felt more optimistic he would than he had before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I feel like the emphasis on how hard it is for the guardians/parents of autistic kids is really fucking shitty. 
> 
> Cause how much rougher must it feel to have a meltdown in public? Knowing my own sensory overload shit from PTSD, it feels pretty awful to get there even without an audience and disappointed parents.
> 
> I have seen meltdowns from people close in my life, and it was a lot of screaming. A lot. Not so much flailing. Meltdowns look different from person to person, and some autistics never have meltdowns, and instead shutdown.
> 
> Or so on.
> 
> Given everyone is different and all.
> 
> Lemme know if I got something horribly wrong. Or even just a little wrong. 
> 
> My headcanon is that Talia/people raising Damian tended towards punishment and/or sedating him when he got like this, thanks to a fic I read, and so there's an added panic element. Cause Dami's also dealing with a motherfucker of a case of CPTSD, in my opinion.


	87. The Late Cousin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kate shows up to see Bette. Bruce isn't sure what to make of it at first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing, Kate Kane! :D
> 
> Expect her to factor more in the future!

Kate Kane coming back into town was a surprise to everyone.

At this point, Bruce had met his cousin a few times. She was in the military academy, as he understood. Her father was in the Army.

She had very short red hair. She had the stance of somebody ready to fight. She had been a twin.

The Kanes, Kate, her sister, her parents, had been far overseas at the time his parents' murder. It would have been impossible to take in Bruce. And by the time they were scheduled to come home, not only was Bruce in a foster home (his second), but the unthinkable had happened.

Kate's mother and twin had been murdered.

Bruce could respect Mr. Kane, Kate's father, for not taking him in. He'd barely been able to pull himself and Kate through the trauma, and Bruce didn't think he could have handled another traumatized child--double hit by his parents' murder and ensuing instability and fear in his foster homes.                                                             

And it wouldn’t have worked out the way it had anyway. Bruce wouldn’t have kids of his own, in all likelihood, and while he didn’t have such a huge ego that he thought no one else could have helped his kids, he hoped he had done the best he could by them.

So, Kate Kane knocking on his door was a surprise.

It was him, Cullen, and Damian home at the moment. Cullen was tapping away on the netbook, writing an essay, and Damian was curled on the couch with a cat—an ‘illegal’ rescue, meaning he hadn’t exactly asked permission first.

Bruce had answered the door. “Kate?”

“Bruce. Hi. How are you?” Kate was a little terse, but it seemed mainly that he wasn’t the one she was here to see. She glanced towards the back, seeing Cullen and Damian.

“I’m doing well, how are you?”

Her attention came back to Bruce. “Good. Is Bette here?”

There was something unusually tense about her posture. Bruce almost recognized it from himself, from his years with fear and hyperawareness after his parents’ murder, but it wasn’t the same. He didn’t think it had to do with fear in that sense.

“Why don’t you step in? Bette’ll be home soon,” Bruce replied, and Kate nodded, a sharp motion, and stepped past him into the house.

Damian stood with the cat and moved to the back of the house, looking distrustfully at Kate. His eyes seemed to be examining her for some kind of identification, and Bruce reassured, “This is my cousin, Kate.”

Not CPS, not the police.

After the ordeal, Damian had been a lot more wary of strangers coming to the house. Hell, of authority figures in general.

He just nodded, not bothering to introduce himself, and disappeared upstairs with the cat.

Cullen was looking over too. He’d stopped typing. “Um…did you want privacy?”

“Yes,” Kate said, before Bruce could respond.

Cullen nodded, saved his work, turned off the netbook, and took it upstairs. It was a pain to move it, given it was a little broken and wouldn’t work without its cord, but that was why they got it so inexpensively.

Bruce turned back to Kate, and asked, “You want to see Bette. Why?”

Kate’s teeth clenched a little, and her eyes darted down, surprisingly. Then she said, in a hard tone, “I have come to apologize.”

Bruce was a little surprised. “For?”

She gave him a look like he was a moron. Or like he should know. “For not realizing. For not being there. For not supporting her. Take your pick.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “You’re talking about her abuse. Kate, you should know—“

“What I should know is she is my younger cousin who always looked up to me and I should have done something!” Kate snapped back, not ready to be anything near absolved.

“Did you grow up around Bette’s family?” Bruce said softly.

“Yes. Some. We got together roughly a weekend a month,” Kate responded. “More in the summer.”

Bruce sighed. “Kate, you’re not so much older than Bette that you would have easily recognized the signs. Hell, even adults—“

“Don’t even, Bruce. It was my responsibility—she’s my cousin, and I didn’t protect her,” Kate insisted.

Bruce was quiet a moment. “Did you ever actually suspect?”

Kate shifted a little. “Somewhat. I thought they…her father and her relationship was strange…I swear she tried to tell me. Looking back, I think she tried to tell me so many times…”

“Kate, you can’t blame yourself for what her parents did. You grew up around them, and it probably felt normal to you. I…don’t know the situation well enough to know what you did know, but I don’t think Bette blames you.” Bruce was quiet. It was a tough thing to figure out—he didn’t know how culpable Kate was, though he doubted she was all that culpable at all.

And yet, the thought that Bette might’ve been trying to reach out and was rebuffed rankled him. He knew the pain she’d gone through.

“I didn’t hear about the case until late,” Kate said quietly, “And I was overseas. I…wish I had been here sooner. I wish I had kicked his ass.”

Bruce nodded. “I…understand. If you want to talk to her, that’s up to you and her. She’s an adult, though she’s still under my care. She should be home in a half an hour.”

He shifted a little, and said, “If you’d like to meet other family members—“

“I know about your kid. It’s okay.”

Bruce couldn’t help but snort. “Which one?”

Kate seemed to hesitate on that, and then, in a tone that said she realized he had a veritable gaggle of children, “Your youngest.”

Bruce nodded. “I’ll see if they’re up for it.”

Cullen didn’t want to, though he would have agreed with some prodding. Bruce didn’t prod.

Damian, on the other hand, came down to silently observe Kate, his hand methodically stroking the cat and looking like he was trying to imitate The Godfather or something.

Bette showed up back home soon, and it turned out Kate didn’t get a chance to apologize—Bette was too excited to see her and chatter her ear off about all the things she’d been up to.

And as the cousins warmed up to each other, Bruce couldn’t help but feel relieved.

He hoped Kate would stick around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I feel like there were probably signs Kate could have picked up on had she known what to look for, but as is common, she just didn't. Not out of malice or even apathy, just that she didn't see Bette extremely often and had an unusual family makeup too (though not abusive) and was dealing with so much trauma and issues herself.
> 
> And she's a soldier. And she has a justice streak a mile wide, hence wanting to apologize.
> 
> I hope I did okay! :)


	88. Baby You Can Shut Your Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim learns some common parenting behaviors that his parents just didn't do--and refuses to believe they're common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a play on a Beatles' song. :P

The hardest thing for any of his kids to realize was just how unloving their parents had been. 

Not Dick, of course. 

And Jason really knew, for the most part.

But Tim? That was extremely difficult for him to comprehend, to know just how far off base his mother and father had been.

He seemed to know it was at least a little off, having mentioned once or twice in a sarcastic tone things that made Bruce wince. Things like, ‘Because the absolute best way to get someone over the flu is to ignore it and make them do housework til they throw up’ that made Bruce just want to hold Tim.

It was a normal enough day, with Tim surfing the internet for what meager bits he could pick up on whatever topic held his fancy today, and Dick busily fixing Bruce’s old pickup, mostly changing fluids. Bruce was worried it was on its last legs, given it had been basically a goner when he’d gotten it and it felt like it was held together with hairpins and duct tape.

He only really used it to get Tim to school at the moment, though.

Bruce walked, smeared in grease and laughing a little at the jokes that Dick had been making, when he could see Tim staring dumbly at the computer, and then he started shaking his head, a little at first, almost a laugh trying to leave his mouth, but it wouldn’t.

He walked over quietly to Tim, asking, “Are you okay?”

Tim just let out a snort, and asked, almost desperately, “It’s not really normal to just-just check in and respond to whatever your kid says, right? I mean, everyone can’t be doing that. Not _really._ It’s gotta be rare.”

Bruce sat in the chair across from Tim at the table, asking, “What do you mean, Tim?”

Tim just seemed to struggle for a words a moment, then said, “This article. It says, uh… ‘like Parents respond to any sound their child makes, regardless of intelligibility’ and-and parents don’t do that. That’s silly, it doesn’t make sense. If the kid’s unintelligible, why would they even respond? I just…”

Bruce could feel a small lump in his throat. He swallowed it away, and put a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “Tim, it’s…no, most parents like to respond to their kids.”

At the crestfallen look on Tim’s face, he continued on.

“It wasn’t you, Tim. It’s not you.”

Tim swallowed, saying, “That can’t be. You don’t get it, they just…that makes no sense.” He seemed to grasp for straws, saying, “What about the saying ‘children should be seen and not heard?’ That—lots of people feel that way.”

Bruce gently folded the laptop closed on the table, and said, “Tim, the people who use that saying hated kids. It’s in the same boat as sayings like…hm. It’s the same as the sticks and stones rhyme. It’s outdated and is used to silence other people.”

Tim looked down a moment, then back up. “But, seriously—just some toddler babbling? Why would they respond to that? That makes no sense. If—if they’re busy doing something important, then why would they respond?”

Bruce sighed. “Not all parents respond to their kids, it’s true. But, many, if not most, do. It’s…instinctual. It helps them learn language, confidence, and builds the relationship.”

Tim didn’t say anything.

“Tim, it’s not your fault,” Bruce said gently, “I know your parents weren’t very attentive, but that doesn’t reflect on you. That’s all on them.”

Tim shook his head a little, and swiped at one of his eyes. “No, I just—I musta been too quiet or annoying or something. Or maybe I just…they’re really busy, my dad works a lot and my mom has, um, so much going on—“

Bruce’s heart hurt for Tim, who seemed essentially to be both asking the question, ‘Why didn’t they love me?’ and ignoring the seeming answer. He leaned in, pulled him into a hug. Tim buried his face into Bruce’s shoulder, and he could feel his arms come up halfway around him, that always insecure hug that Tim gave even now.

“Tim, if your parents can’t see you’re an amazing kid, they’re blind. Busy or not, you deserved their attention. You’re not annoying, I promise. I promise.”

Tim seemed to cling a little. Seemed to shake a little. “…maybe.” 

The very quiet word was progress, in Bruce’s opinion. It didn’t sound entirely like just agreeing with Bruce to make him happy, even though it sounded extremely uncertain. Even it sounded like he might believe it was far more likely he was a problem and not a child who deserved all this luxurious attention.

Bruce held him a little longer, but let him go when it seemed like he was ready. He looked Tim in the eye. “Tim, you’re a good kid. And it’s a shame on them that they didn’t treat you like it.”

Tim gave an almost awkward half smile, and said, “Is Dick fixing the truck? I mean, is he done yet?”

Bruce could have laughed at the redirect, but Tim had clearly reached his limit for this discussion, so he stood, saying, “You want to come and see? He could probably use a hand.”

Tim stood uncertainly, but followed Bruce out.

Dick was quick to draw Tim in, convincing him to do some small parts of fixing the truck, after assuring him that knowing nothing about cars didn’t mean he was going to ‘wreck the truck,’ as Tim seemed to think it might.

Bruce watched the two, and honestly, he was relieved Dick was able to open up to Tim. That they’d bonded as much as they had. He hadn’t even been sure Dick would come back for a while, not after Jason.

Jason would have loved fixing the truck.

And Bruce could never silence the pang that hit him, it hadn’t been nearly long enough, and it probably never would be. There was something indescribable about the feeling. Something agonizing in echo, something like a stab wound that had never healed.

He watched Dick and Tim. He wouldn’t let something like that happen to either of them. He would protect them with his life if he had to. 

And then Tim let out a squeaky giggle, still at that age his voice hadn’t quite changed, and Bruce could feel the dark clouds lifting a little. He could see Dick teasing Tim, could see that grin that belonged on Dick’s face as he made some joke about the radiator and becoming superpowered, ‘with all the powers of an automobile!’

They were healing. All of them, even if from different things.

And Bruce just had to hope it got better, even if he wasn’t sure it could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a thing for me. I ran across a similar thing and was like... 'that's an actual thing? Like, even if the kid's just saying nonsense??'
> 
> Cause, I would always respond to my baby bro and have long conversations with him, but I was treated as really weird for it. In fact, most of my 'really weird' parenting type things with my baby bro are actually supposed to be common and fairly normal. Like letting him do his chores with free reign and only stepping in if he actually needs help, instead of micromanaging like some petty dictator. Or wrestling around with him on the floor and letting him 'win.' 
> 
> My boyfriend's been like, when I say people don't do a thing, 'Really? You'd screw someone over that way?' 
> 
> And I have to be like, 'Well, no, but I'm really weird.'
> 
> Apparently an astonishing amount of people are reasonably nice, even when given a reason or opportunity to screw you over, such as you being sick a lot and missing some work. I mean, I readily expected to get in trouble, but my managers were nice and actually wanted me to get better without even subtle getting back at me or something. It was kinda weird.
> 
> (I know I'm really lucky in where I work and not everywhere is like that.)
> 
> Yeah. So I've had the Tim moment above as an adult. Good times.


	89. No Bots No Pots No Counterplots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason doesn't take Dick's teasing well. Dick doesn't know Jason well enough yet.

Jason cradled the plant in its pot carefully. It was almost like watching someone with a baby—except the person had never been trusted with a baby before and was frightened of hurting it. Or at least a little shocked that they had been trusted.

It was a small cactus. Bruce thought that was a good start, as Jason had literally no idea how to care for a plant, and cacti were hard to kill.

The child loved to learn, though, so Bruce anticipated good things.

“What kinda cactus is it?” Jason wanted to know.

Bruce had no idea. “…we’ll have to look it up, I’m not sure.”

Jason grinned a little. Almost a smirk. Very slight, but more open and confident than Bruce had seen before. “I bet it’s a mini or something. Like with dogs.”

Bruce didn’t have the heart to correct him, though he was fairly sure that wasn’t the case. It was just small. And in all honesty, it wasn’t fair to try to correct him when he wasn’t sure himself. They entered the house, Bruce with grocery bags slung over his arms and Jason holding the potted cactus.

Dick looked up, and said, “Jason, no pot in this house!”

It was clearly teasing. But, but, Dick clearly hadn’t quite learned the limits of teasing with Jason, because the pot and cacti were flying towards Dick before he could say ‘just kidding.’

Jason ran for upstairs, and Bruce quickly put down the groceries, a little confused on _why_ this was so strong a reaction, but Jason still didn’t really trust him. He’d only managed a fragile peace to get him to go with him to the store, where Bruce knew there were reduced cacti on sale.

Dick had caught the pot, sucking on his thumb to nurse away the prick from the needle. He looked to Bruce, his eyes clearly saying, ‘Oops. I don’t know why, but that was bad.’

Bruce sighed softly, and headed after Jason at a slower pace. Rushing after him was certain to scare him, and he was easily scared. Not in the romantic way that people liked to imagine frightened children, but in the biting, cussing way.

“Jason?” he asked as he reached the doorway of the boys’ room. The tiny boy was hidden under the bed; Bruce knew because some of the transformers they’d gotten on clearance at the discount outlet had been knocked aside from their positions. Dick had apparently been playing some imaginative game involving transformers in circles and some of them with their arms thrown in the air.

He didn’t get a response. 

He sighed instead. “I’m not mad.”

“Fuck you, I don’t have any pot,” Jason grumbled from under the bed.

“I know you don’t, Jason. Even if you did, I wouldn’t be mad. Dick was just joking about—“

“I’m not fucking stupid!” came the snarl.

Bruce let out a breath through his nose. “I know you’re not. But, for the future, don’t throw things at your brother. That was heavy and dangerous.”

Jason’s eyes were very narrowly visible past the edge of the blanket. “Is he okay?”

Bruce said, “Physically, he’s fine. But you probably hurt his feelings.”

Jason snorted at that, like Bruce had suggested squishing bread hurt its feelings. He didn’t come out.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Bruce asked, sure that prying wouldn’t help. He knew enough to know that having drugs was a big problem for a foster kid, and Jason wouldn’t feel safe to admit it if he did have any—which Bruce doubted.

Jason grumbled a little unintelligibly. 

Bruce turned to get Dick, but the boy was already in the doorway. He came in, and dropped down next to the bed, saying, “Hey, Jay, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t,” Jason baldly lied.

“Okay. You want to play transformers, then? We can keep playing cannibal cult.”

Bruce managed to keep the surprise off his face. He really should have known the pair of them would come up with such an idea.

“Yeah, but I have to be the purple one,” Jason said petulantly, crawling out from under the bed. “And he’s gonna kick your ass.”

Bruce backed out of the room quietly. Dick was at that age where it was less likely he’d play with action figures, but he gladly did so with Jason.

Jason probably had had little opportunity to do so as a child.

And so, to the words, “…we have to divide him by the arms and legs, it’s only fair…” Bruce smiled, leaving them to their play.

It felt like they made more progress with Jason every day.

It had barely been two months since he came to live with them, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just what it says on the tin, I guess. Jason is scared that they'll kick him out for real or imagined offenses.


	90. Punchline with No Joke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Joker rears his head again, and it's all Bruce can do to hold it together--himself, and his makeshift family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some disturbing bits. The Joker is a scary piece of work, just a heads up.

The hope had been that Joker wouldn’t show up again. The hope had been he was gone for good.

The hope was shattered one night.

Tim did not scream. Not typically speaking. Not in joy, not in alarm, not for help without pain. If he screamed, Bruce knew he had to be there right now.

He didn’t even remember what he was doing when he ran, what he dropped to just absolutely book it, all he knew was icy fear in his veins, a desperation to be there one minute ago.

The scene was every bit as alarming as he imagined—Dick was sprawled on the ground, looking perhaps unconscious, clearly having taken a hit to the head. And Tim was desperately blocking with his bo staff, trying to fend off the stuff of nightmares.

The Joker. A ghastly white smeared on his skin and red coated his lips and his green hair stood in tufts like something from a horror movie.

Bruce’s skin went prickly cold just seeing him, but he was already racing in as the horror figure swung his crowbar at his son again.

The sound of the metal striking the solid wood made Tim let out a sound of fear, lips bitten harshly between his teeth as breaths raced in and out of his nose and he moved to block the next swing. His legs looked like they might give out.

Bruce swept in, coming in between his son and the Joker, throwing him back with a solid punch up under the chin. The Joker fell backwards, and Bruce followed, striking his arm to make him let go of the crowbar and then solidly planting his knee on his chest, full weight not only forcing out air but probably breaking ribs.

As soon as the creep could breathe, though, he was cackling. “Got…a new…one…eh, Bats?”

Bruce punched him across the face, snarling.

His veins felt hot, filling him with an unspeakable rage. A desire to tear this man apart. To see him suffer, to destroy him completely.

Instead, he hit him in the head again, enough to disorient, and then zip-tied him. Feet and hands. He wasn’t gracious getting off of him either, but the sounds that got through to him told him there was no time for vengeance.

Tim was hyperventilating in the background, and he could hear Dick groaning as he came to.

“B’by bir…” he groaned, obviously trying to comfort despite not being all there.

Bruce came to his side, drawing back his hood to get a look at his head. “How many fingers, Nightwing?”

“Stop moving your hand…” Dick murmured, a slight annoyance there.

Definitely a concussion. The spot he was struck felt slightly swollen, but there was no blood and it didn’t feel like a fracture—which didn’t mean there wasn’t one. 

Bruce reached out to Tim, pulling him close and feeling the boy shake violently. “It’s okay, Robin. I’ve got the both of you.”

Tim didn’t respond.

“Nightwing, can you move? Wiggle your fingers for me.”

Dick did so, and kicked up his feet for good measure.

Bruce continued checking Dick over, Tim pressed into his side with one arm. He grit his teeth as he heard the Joker start cackling again and Tim press tighter into his side. Dick, on the other hand, growled, “I’m going to shut him up,” and went to stand.

Bruce had to let go of Tim to stop Dick, saying, “Nightwing, we don’t know how hard your head was hit, stop.”

“Fucking bastard…’s scaring Baby Bird…” Dick murmured, “No. No, he…no, he can’t do that.”

Seeing as Dick was not going to lay down, Bruce supported him, and reached for Tim. “I’ll contact the police. They’ll pick him up.”

It was high time to leave.

The Joker started laughing hysterically, and Bruce had to restrain Dick, which only required the one arm in this state, thank god, because he could pull along Tim with the other.

“He’s not worth it. Come on,” Bruce murmured, as much as he wanted to beat the shit out of that man. 

As much as the mental image of tearing him limb from limb both soothed and horrified Bruce, making him want to scream.

He would rather not move Dick. He would want to be sure he was safe to move. But it was unsafe to keep him here, as well as Tim.

He made Dick lay down in the back of the van, stationed Tim next to him, and made the call.

Then he got them home.

It was an agonizing night in more ways than one: watching Dick, who recovered, thank god, watching Tim and making him drink and eat and eventually sleep, tamping down his own feelings for the moment because they needed him. Watching the door, unwilling to admit to himself he was terrified that something or someone would come through.

Because he was very afraid. He couldn't lose them again. And even though Dick kept slurring out reassurances they were okay, he was not reassured. 

Tim would only sleep in the living room with Dick, where the elder was sprawled on the ancient couch. He wedged himself into the corner of the couch and went to sleep with Dick's legs over him.

Bruce didn't sleep. Not all night.

It was only Selina showing up the next day, waltzing in like she owned the place, and telling him to get his ass in bed because he looked 'like shit, darling' that made him finally sleep.

It was more her point that sleep deprivation only made him and therefore them more vulnerable that got him in bed, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta da. I feel like Bruce would still be having a lot of difficulty with Jason's death at this point. The Joker's also gonna show up more in the future.


	91. Orphan Number Nine: Sasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha comes into Bruce's home violently ripped from all she knew. Jason is the one who brings her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENT MURDER

Sasha was unexpected, and yet completely predictable, in some ways. 

At least, the fact that she ended up with them gave Bruce a lot of hope for his second eldest son.

It was late. They weren't out on patrol, but the night was dim and a little muggy. School was out, which meant his college kids were home, though learning never stopped. Damian had to be reminded that that didn't mean you could never relax, but most of them seemed to enjoy learning to some extent.

Harper was doing a dramatic rendition of her chemistry paper upstairs, the sounds of her siblings cracking up and moving around a pleasant sound even if it was probably a good time for them to be asleep.

They had their snacks and their drinks (soda, juice, strange infused water, and so on) and were having a high time of it.

And so Bruce was surprised when there was a knock at the door. He opened it, and immediately opened it all the way on seeing Jason. 

"Jason, what's--"

Jason cut him off. "I need your help."

Bruce knew the fact he wasn't beating around the bush or even acting somewhat ashamed at asking for help meant this was serious. He was a touch hesitant to say he'd help, his heart starting a chilly patter that made him wonder if Jason was in deep, deep trouble.

The kind he couldn't fix.

"Kid, it's okay," Jason promised to someone behind him, a person who had successfully hidden themselves from Bruce.

Bruce stepped aside, saying, "Come in. What happened? What do you need?"

Jason came in, and licked his lips. He was wearing his usual leather coat from patrol, though no mask and no symbol. He looked like an average citizen, not a vigilante.

And behind him was a child.

A girl in her early teens, though it was a bit hard to tell. Her eyes were wide and looked almost glazed over. The rest of her face was covered.

Bandages peeked out of the edges of the ski mask.

Bruce looked to Jason, expecting some sort of explanation. His heart already hurt for her, seeing she was clearly traumatized, but as to how and why, he didn't know.

"This's Sasha. I call her Little Red," Jason said softly. She was wearing an oversized coat, purple, and what appeared to be white cargo shorts. Tufts of red hair escaped the ski mask. Her legs were bare, and she had only beat up white sneakers.

Bruce nodded, and looked to her. "Sasha, can you speak?"

Her eyes seemed to peer at him, blink a couple times. Then she looked back away. Her eyes were very wide, like she couldn't shut them, but she blinked every so often.

"She's, uh, she normally is a little ball of sass," Jason said, then amended, "I'm sorry, uh, 'normally' makes it sound like I've...like I take care of her normally. I mean, I just, uh--"

He was stumbling, clearly, and that was when Bruce realized Jason was very distressed. He was trying hard not to look like it, presumably for Sasha's sake.

"What happened?" Bruce said it softly, not wanting to upset either of them.

Jason sighed. "Her...uh, her dad is gone. I saw it go down. And, she couldn't go with them, cause, uh...I thought she'd get charged. I took her home, and...and...I'm not like you. I'm not good at this."

Bruce could feel a pang in his chest. Jason was trying so hard to help, but he didn't know how. That was often the case with Jason. He gave his son a hug, and said, "I know you are trying to do what's right. It's okay. Go into the kitchen, and I'll talk to Sasha."

Jason nodded, looking over at Sasha. "Don't bite him, kay, Little Red?"

It seemed to be an in-joke that fell on deaf ears. Jason headed into the kitchen, where Bruce was pretty certain he would start brewing tea or outright making food.

Bruce turned to Sasha, and sank down more to her level. "Hello, Sasha. My name's Bruce. I'm Jason's father. Can you tell me how old you are?"

Her eyes flickered over to him again, and he wondered if her mouth was all right. Jason seemed to think she normally talked, so he didn't know. 

"Are you hurting? Does anywhere hurt on your body?" Bruce said.

Sasha nodded robotically.

"Can you point to it?" Bruce asked.

Sasha gestured towards her whole face, her ribs, her shoulder, and tapped her thigh. 

Bruce nodded, and said, "Have they been treated? Can I help?"

Sasha nodded, and Bruce realized he'd asked two questions that required separate answers. He said, "Do you need medicine? Pain killers?"

She apparently decided yes, nodding.

"Do you need your wounds checked?"

Shake of the head.

"Do you need them disinfected?"

Shake of the head.

Bruce sighed, got her some water, ibuprofen, and a neutral snack--goldfish crackers. Damian's favorite that he would never admit to.

He also got her a blanket. "I'm going to talk to Jason. I can see you from the kitchen, so all you have to do is wave or something to get my attention, okay?"

Slight nod.

Bruce headed in to the kitchen, where Jason had indeed brewed tea. He was quiet, leaned over his cup and holding it tightly. He didn't look up at Bruce.

Bruce put a hand on his son's shoulder. "What happened?"

Jason let out a heavy sigh. "I...I was trying to stop a crime. You know, this asshole decided he was gonna mug her and her dad. But he had a knife, and I was too late--that pig carved her up when her dad fought back. Killed him too. Right in front of her. Goddamn fucking..." Jason took a breath. "It was...there was a lot of blood. All over her goddamn face, her hands, her clothes...and she had the knife. She had it, but I saw the guy. He was already running by the time I got there."

Bruce was quiet, not really wanting to remember that kind of trauma. He'd faced much of his past, but it was still something he didn't like to revisit. 

The fact he knew the pain, though, he felt helped him with his kids.

"You thought she'd be charged?" That didn't entirely make sense.

"Well..." Jason hesitated. "She was only speaking in Russian at the time. And...and she woulda sounded psycho to anyone who picked her up. You know how that shit can go down, Bruce. She tried to stab me with the knife. She fucking _bit_ me. How well you think that woulda gone over with a cop in this part of town?"

Bruce had to admit, Jason was right. But he'd also muddied things up a lot. "You treated her wounds?"

"I know a guy. Said she was illegal, he took care of it. He's a good guy. Not a licensed doctor, but knows his shit," Jason replied.

"So, does she have medications she needs to take? Or anything else I should know?"

Jason sighed. "I ran out. And she saw a thing and started acting like this and I realized I've been shit at taking care of her. I can't...I can't help her with this. I don't even have a normal house like you, okay? I mean, she needs shit I can't give her."

He looked at Bruce now. There was a pleading look in his eyes.

And Bruce let out a breath, feeling like he wanted to cave. He swallowed, looking out at the girl in the living room, staring roughly in the direction of the TV--which wasn't on.

"We'll have to do it legally," Bruce finally said softly. "We'll have to report what we know on the murder, and try to foster her legally--if she doesn't have relatives to take her in."

Jason nodded, shoulders sagging in relief. "I don't think she does. I'm not sure. I'm, uh...Thank you. I know...this is important."

Bruce gave him a hug. "I know you're trying to do the right thing, Jay. I know. You did the best you could. You're a good person."

Jason let out an almost laugh, but stifled it. He looked like he didn't believe it, but wanted to. 

He let go of Bruce, moving to the living room. He settled onto the couch next to Sasha, and started explaining what was happening.

Bruce felt pride--and also sorrow. For Sasha. For the fact Jason knew precisely what to say, because he'd been there. For Sasha's father, perhaps nameless in a morgue.

The little redheaded girl seemed to understand what Jason said.

And so she was to stay, eyes blinking up at Bruce.

It would turn out she was not normally so quiet at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Helena is not along yet. But she should be. I have plans. :)
> 
> As for Sasha, what she's entering is a sort of dissociative/catatonic state, associated with severe trauma. I am debating on what to do about her last name--or if her first name is even accurate. I dunno, man. There's plenty of creation to be done.
> 
> I feel like her run was one of the most repulsive arcs. Might not be, but I found the dollotron and Professor Pyg just stomach-turning--and not in a good way. And Jason's costume was ridiculous.
> 
> And I'm just not a fan of the macabre for the shock value.
> 
> So, her backstory and story is gonna shape up differently by a lot, starting by not having some crazy doll making madman--but a fairly ordinary human with a knife. Yeah, a probable sociopath human, but not some crazy pig man, I guess.
> 
> I expect to get more into her character as we go on. Let me know if it was not so great. :P


	92. I Wouldn't Have to Stalk You If You'd Stop Avoiding Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's mother pops back up in his life unexpectedly.

Tim’s news was less than welcome, as he swiftly shut the screen door. “I saw my mom.”

Bruce’s brow wrinkled. Tim’s mom hadn’t shown up in his life for some time, ever since the court order for both her and his father to remain a certain distance away (as well as his father being put in jail for breaking and entering, among other things. Somehow, Janet wasn’t sentenced). “At the doctor’s?”

Tim sat down with a sharp look to his mouth, his bag set heavily next to him. His blue eyes looked somewhat filled with shock, and he said, “Yeah, she was there. Tried to act all casual reading a magazine, then ‘just happened’ to notice me.”

“She talked to you?” Bruce could feel an angry roil in his gut, seeing the way Tim was clearly shaken. The boy brushed back his hair from his face, murmuring, 

“She can’t possibly have known. She can’t. I wasn’t at Dr. Blake’s.”

Dr. Blake was the oh so helpful family doctor that consistently covered up any signs of abuse when Tim was infrequently taken to the doctor. Tim even related being scolded as a three year old for ‘pulling his own arm out of the socket.’

He was young enough he believed it to be somewhat true, or at least was too confused to protest, and then had buried the memory.

Dr. Blake’s records had also been hard to get sent to Tim’s new doctor. Mysteriously enough.

Bruce sighed, moving closer to Tim. “It’s okay, Tim. She can’t hurt you.”

Tim huffed out a sigh as well, and murmured, “She talked to me. Like she’d seen me recently and we were just catching up. Bruce, I’m _seventeen_ , I haven’t seen her in years!”

Janet was…a special kind of crazy. Bruce didn’t know how to put it in a way that didn’t result in him cussing her out. He wrapped his arm around Tim, seeing he was upset, especially given the more recent episode of him being taken. Hell, Bruce still hadn’t gotten over that one.

“What’d she say?”

“She said…she said she _forgave_ me for lying and ‘running away’ and ‘putting them through so much trouble.’” Tim shuddered, both fury and disgust and fear seeming to be there.

Bruce had to stay completely calm on this, even as he wanted to punch Janet’s face in.

“And then she followed up with…with the fact I was nearly eighteen, and if I wanted, I could come live with them again and they’d help pay for college.” Tim’s voice seemed to shake. “And then she hugged me.”

Bruce didn’t question that Tim had let her do it. Janet had probably set it up so he’d feel pressure to do so, so he’d be nervous and disoriented.

Tim had just been tested for strep. Given he didn’t have a spleen, any signs of infection had to be taken seriously. He felt a little warm right now, but Bruce would ask in a moment about that. It could very well be emotional.

“I…I asked her how she knew I’d be here. She just smiled a little, tried to shrug it off. ‘Oh, I heard about it.’ And I asked who told her. She said, ‘They did,’ like it was normal. And I said, ‘Who are they?’ And she just sort of got that frozen look on her face, the one that’s about being embarrassing in public, and said, ‘Oh, just the girls at the desk. Timothy, honey, why don’t we get some coffee and catch up? I’ve missed you so much.’” Tim buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce stroked his son’s hair gently, even as the rage in him felt ready to boil over. Janet didn’t even show signs of embarrassment at literally stalking her son in defiance of a restraining order, just at him questioning her actions in public. Because presumably there were people in the waiting room.

“So she asked the staff.” Bruce said this quietly, and Tim nodded. “Well, on the upside, we can absolutely tell them not to tell her anything. It’s illegal for them to tell her.”

“How can she be so fucking nuts?” Tim wanted to know. “How can she think I’d want to come back just because she’s dangling help with college in front of me?”

Bruce sighed. They both knew Janet was delusional, frankly, but in a generally socially acceptable way. Or at least, a way that passed for socially acceptable on the surface.

“Well, we’ll contact the police and your doctor,” Bruce said, unable to come up with an explanation for Janet. He ruffled Tim’s hair a little, saying, “She can’t get to you, you know. And if she tries, she’s going to fail. Miserably.”

Tim let out a sigh. “I hope so.”

He was clearly still shaken.

He was even more shaken when the phone started ringing every few hours, the first being reported by Damian as ‘some woman who claims to be your mother,’ and the rest ignored as the same number came up.

Bruce gritted his teeth and called the police.

The calls stopped the next day.

But it was probably not the last they’d seen of Janet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. My mum pulled behavior somewhat like this recently.
> 
> She talked to the staff and got the time and date of my appointment, and then called me just before it to tell me to stop by after it. And I was like, I definitely didn't fucking tell you about that.
> 
> And she had the exchange almost verbatim that Tim had with his mum in this when he asked how she knew about the appointment with me.
> 
> And she seemed to think promising me the remainder of my stuff, that they missed when they packed it all up when I unexpectedly escaped, and also a homegrown tomato, was enough to get me to come home on her terms.
> 
> Temporarily, presumably. But then she started calling and messaging and then getting family members to do so. I lived in a state of sheer terror for over a day, afraid she knew where I lived or something, since she kept threatening to come by my house to drop off my shit.
> 
> She probably couldn't have done anything to me. My fear was probably irrational. 
> 
> But it scared the fuck out of me. She also subtly threatened to come visit me at work. I told her point blank not to visit me at work. Saw her in the parking lot the next day, which may or may not have been a coincidence. 
> 
> I hid in my bathroom with the lights off for a solid 5 or 6 hours. 
> 
> She used to track my every location and movement, and I guess it just reactivated the terror of being controlled and trapped.
> 
> So, that was my past week. Thanks for being a Grade A Creeper, mum. 
> 
> Tim's situation is definitely not identical, but I wanted to use the feeling. I'm mad and hurt and just so pissed off that she would think she should or could do that. That she acts like it's okay when I've clearly concealed so much information from her.
> 
> I wish I could cut her out of my life without cutting out everyone else.


	93. Dress to be a Pest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homeschool prom turns out to be slightly different than Bette anticipates.

"Bro, bro, no, okay, like, just sit your ass down, kay?" Bette was in top form today, hands on her hips and wearing a gorgeous prom dress.

Bruce had helped her look for it in a used clothing store. It had a full length, 'swishy' skirt, and pink sequins trailing around a lighter pink. Her makeup matched the theme, and her hair was unreal. 

The thing about homeschool proms, however, was that they weren't very restricted on age in general. So, it wasn't only Bette going.

Cass was, eyes bright and black dress slightly more embellished than she might have chosen without Bette's guidance. It had a sweetheart neckline and black 'pearls' in a muted pattern.

And Tim was, a fact he was not exactly ecstatic about.

He was frowning almost petulantly at Bette, arms crossed in the suit he had acquired. It was your typical black, but evidently Bette had feelings about the bowtie.

"It's fine the way it is," Tim insisted.

Bette gave an exasperated sigh, saying, "Timbo, come on. Don't wear your R2-D2 bowtie. For the love of god, have a soul."

"It's more soulless to not wear what you actually want to," Tim replied, straightening out the bowtie.

Cass was grinning, evidently amused.

Bruce let out a sigh. "Come on, Bette, leave him be. It's his decision."

Bette let out an elongated 'urgh.' "Come on, Bruce, don't let him leave the house looking like that! I did Cass's and my hair and we look fucking awesome--Tim can't--"

"Tim can," Tim put in, straightening the bowtie again.

The funny part was, it was the sort of attire that would actually be entirely acceptable. Bruce wasn't fond of stereotyping homeschoolers as a group, but there was undeniably a larger proportion of nerds and geeks.

And this particular group was very liable to debate Star Wars versus Lord of the Rings.

"Bruuuuuce..." Bette complained.

He smiled at her. "It's okay, Bette. No one's going to care about him wearing that bowtie. This isn't exactly a high pressure event."

Bette pouted, but didn't fight them anymore on it.

Dick showed up at that point, singing out, "Time to chaperone!"

And Bette looked about ready to lose it, while Tim buried snickers behind his hands.

For Dick was wearing an insanely old suit, powder blue with ruffles, and Bruce smiled a bit fondly to himself, knowing its story.

It was John Grayson's. Dick's father.

And Dick wore it well, fluffing out the ruffles as he grinned at Bette.

Bette stomped to the van, somehow not hurting her feet with the heels she was wearing. Cass shook her head at Dick, almost a fond gesture, and headed out to the van as well.

To Bette's chagrin, it did turn out that Dick and Tim fit right in. So did she, but she was clearly a bit embarrassed she'd made a big deal out of it.

Bruce could tell she was being apologetic, because she taught Tim the jitterbug and patiently suffered through his stepping her dress and being off beat til he got it.

It was actually rather touching to watch them start giggling like siblings when they both got a step wrong. They'd come some way since their early encounters, and it meant a lot to Bruce that they could get along despite some big differences.

The ride home, everyone was hyped up and chattering far too loud for the hour, but Bruce didn't really mind.

It was happiness to have his head ache from the excitement of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Homeschool proms are totally a thing, and the ones I've been to are extremely laid back and frankly, fun. They also tend to be kinda small. And the kids often do things like play limbo or learn dances, such as the jitterbug or the virginia reel.
> 
> Good times. I had a lot of fun at my sis's proms.
> 
> :D


	94. Pain Demands to Be Felt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha is still in a state of shock and her trauma is severe. Bruce hopes that she can pull through.

The thing about Sasha was that she really was not silent all the time.

And when that dam burst, it was in a screaming fit at Damian. There was no doubt his son had been insensitive, as Bruce had observed it, but he seemed very shocked at the response and being cussed out in a mix of Russian and English.

Tears were streaking down her face, at least as far as Bruce could see through the ski mask that she refused to not wear.

It was just him and them home. No one was there to rescue Damian and soothe Sasha but him--and that was mostly tricky because he was only one person.

Bruce grabbed his son's shoulder, directing him upstairs. The boy backed as defiantly as he could towards the stairs, but it was clear her screaming had shaken him a little.

Titus followed him up.

Sasha was screaming incoherently at this point, sobbing and now she grabbed a boombox and threw it. Bruce caught it and calmly put it down.

"Sasha?"

She didn't respond, and so he waited a little more, watching to be sure she didn't hurt herself. It was about after she slung a stack of old CDs that she simply sunk to the floor and started rocking.

And Bruce knew this was a response to severe trauma. Outbursts were common enough in sufferers of PTSD, which the counselor said she likely had. It was too early to diagnose. And she'd been hit very hard, understandably.

He sat down on the floor none too far away, heartstrings feeling violently pulled as she rocked and sobbed.

"Sasha, you're safe here," Bruce said gently.

She bit into her hand, a habit that left teeth-shaped bruises up and down her arms. He didn't stop her, not this time, because she never broke the skin and she was very much in crisis.

She'd only been with them about a week.

He waited until it was muted weeping, knowing she didn't want him close to her. As other calming attempts had proven.

She looked at him then, eyes framed by the holes of her ski mask and sniffling. "It stings," she managed, and the salt water of her crying probably soaked into her bandages.

Bruce nodded. "Can I clean it up?"

She shook her head.

He nodded again. "Okay." Then he said, "I could use some help washing dishes. Would you like to help me?"

Sasha nodded, standing only a millisecond after he did. She tucked her hoodie tighter around her body, and headed for the kitchen.

He handed her a drying towel, and set to work, keeping the stack fairly high throughout the whole thing, and talking. "You know, I heard the Gotham Knights have a shot this year. I'm not much of a basketball fan, but Steph and Dick and Jason all are, and they'll fill you in on the team if you ask."

He carried on with normal talk, fairly mundane.

Sasha quietly dried the dishes.

By the time they were done with the mountain left by Bette's bake sale effort, Sasha was quiet again. Her eyes were typically downcast, and Bruce wondered what she was like before the attack. When her whole world wasn't shock and fear and uncertainty.

He found something else for her to do, finding she liked to be kept busy and not have time to dwell. That was all right for now. It wasn't fair to try to force her to deal with that trauma right now.

Damian came back down, trying not to look cautious, and carrying the cat in his arms. He sat next to Sasha, and started explaining about Alfred's care, the cat purring ceaselessly in his arms, and where he was hesitant at first, he got into full explanations of how Alfred required fish in his diet or he'd go blind and so on.

The relative calm was maintained, Bruce supposed. He hoped so much that Sasha would get the chance to feel safe, and that the foster care would go through more permanently. 

It was too early to know how temporary the placement was. And life had centered around her for the last week in a way that was very different from the others.

He hoped it worked out. He hoped she healed and got to recover. He hoped she knew she could heal.

For now, he just watched Damian explain his cat's biological functions and Sasha quietly work away at the 3-D puzzle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this works. I have not known very many such severe cases, honestly, but the violence of the trauma makes it more likely she'd behave this way.
> 
> She's still very much in shock except when she's drawn out of it by things like Damian being a shit. Though, to be fair, he wasn't doing it on purpose.
> 
> I hope this is okay. It's a tough one, and I feel like it suits a kind of reinterpretation of the character. And I have no qualms about straying from Morrison.
> 
> Also, she wears the ski mask cause her face was cut up pretty bad, and she wants to cover it up and feel safe.


	95. Frankentim and the Horrible Parent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is constantly unraveling the abuse.
> 
> Bruce doesn't think there's a real end to the rabbit hole.

The thing about abusive parents was you never knew for sure what they did when you were small. This was something that Jason had had to come to terms with, that he pretended to blow off with ‘well they probably beat the shit out of me and let me starve or something.’

Tim, on the other hand, had lived a life that had been very invested in the idea that he was not abused. A history constantly being revised and rewritten and blatantly made up by Janet made knowing his young years impossible.

At least, knowing for sure.

Tim once made the joke that he’d been such a clumsy kid he’d split his own forehead open on the fireplace. He laughed about it, softly, saying he’d had a scar for years and his mother would roll her eyes and call him Frankentim when he attempted something new and he was being clumsy.

The fact Bruce didn’t laugh along, though, made him quiet. His blue eyes uncertainly landed on Bruce, and he muttered an ‘I’m sorry. I’m not very funny.’

“No, Tim, that’s not it. You don’t have to be sorry,” Bruce replied, feeling a pang of regret for coming across like it was Tim’s fault. He honestly couldn’t know either the actual cause of the forehead incident. But he did know mocking him was not a kind parent’s action. “You know, you’re not clumsy.”

Tim snorted a little. “Of course I am. Have you seen me? I can barely walk a straight line.”

“You say that,” Bruce responded, “but I’ve seen you go through your kata. You’ve only been here six months, and you’re picking it up very quickly. I think you have a knack for it.”

Tim’s shoulders seemed to hunch a little in that insecure way, and he murmured, “Maybe.”

“Not maybe, Tim. When you don’t have someone telling you you’re clumsy, you’re not.”

Tim seemed to bristle a little at the statement, like he wasn’t sure if Bruce was calling him gullible or stupid. His shoulders were more hunched in, and Bruce recognized he might not be secure enough here or with him to have this conversation.

He probably didn’t recognize that the bristle, instead of just shrinking, was an improvement.

Bruce felt like Tim had been growing into himself a lot in the past few months. A final hearing was very soon, and it didn’t look good for Tim’s parents and regaining custody.

“I’m not like Dick,” Tim pointed out, apparently going to have the conversation.

Bruce nodded. “That’s true. He’s also not like you, you know.”

Tim looked like he was refraining from saying ‘no shit’ or something similar. 

“Because you have skills and abilities he didn’t have at your age, and you have some he still doesn’t have now. But more importantly, it is _not_ a competition. There is not only so much value to go around. You both matter, agile or not. You may not be clumsy, but even if you were, it wouldn’t change your value.”

Tim considered this a moment, and then ducked away. “I’m gonna ask Dick if he wants to play Risk.”

A not so subtle escape, but Bruce let it be. “If you don’t let him be blue, it throws him off.”

Tim had the tiniest mischievous smirk, before he ran off without another word.

Bruce sighed, and got back to his work. He had unfortunately shit tons of things to do paperwork wise thanks to new regulatory rules. 

More importantly, though, he hoped one day to undo all that had been done to Tim. All he had been told he was that just wasn’t true. 

They would probably never know the extent of what his mother and father did to him. What his baby years were like. If they’d crushed the spirit out of him purposefully, or if they’d just ignored him.

What Bruce did know was that he’d do whatever he could to fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this before work.
> 
> Just kinda dealing with a shit ton with the fam, since I discovered my mum did evals of me as a one, one and half and three year old, describing me as rebellious, too bold, and disobedient.
> 
> The word 'obedience' was used five times in a not-even-completely filled out two page form.
> 
> And there are strategies for crushing my rebellious, bold spirit. And make me obedient faster and learn to sit still quietly doing nothing.
> 
> It makes me fucking furious because the implications are staggering. I was not a quiet, gentle soul from the get go, according to my mum's own descriptions. I was too loud, too friendly with strangers, and prone to leaving the yard etc.
> 
> Also, how the fuck is a one year old rebellious?
> 
> Just has been a thing.
> 
> Aaaand apparently I needed to be punished for 'food problem' at that age as well--as my sensitivities were likely already showing so I refused to eat food that literally hurt my mouth.


	96. Eye for an eye, Tooth for a Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason tries to atone.

Jason wasn’t about to come back. Bruce had accepted that he wasn’t about to come running back in, let him seize him up in his arms like when he was a bit smaller. He’d never been the kind of kid to come running eagerly to almost anyone.

Bruce liked to think that he’d held on to that trust at least as a tiny child, but he didn’t know a lot about Jason’s history, in some ways. Catherine Todd had been his foster mother, but she’d had to leave him. Jason spoke about her a lot like one would a saint gone on to Heaven.

A martyr, maybe.

Jason was almost a man at this point, almost an adult. If he wasn’t one already, Bruce supposed.

He couldn’t make him return home. He wouldn’t want to force him, anyway. That wasn’t their relationship. Bruce wasn’t Jason’s boss or his owner—he was his father. That was a whole world of difference.

He was with Bette and Tim, out on patrol, when they crossed paths once again. The red helmet glinted slightly in the moonlight, and Bruce stopped. Hesitated.

Bette didn’t. “ _You motherfucker!_ ” she hissed, and was already charging towards Jason, ready to beat the shit out of the man who did the same to her.

Tim did what he did best—clam up and set to work. He was already swooping in to cover Bette’s flank, to act as backup of sorts, and Bruce had to run, seriously sprint, to catch up to them. “Wait!”

Jason wasn’t fighting, or even moving. He stood there with his hands clenched at his sides, eyes seemingly on Bette and Tim. He didn’t really acknowledge Bruce.

Bette slammed into him, completely ignoring Bruce. She punched him in the gut, and promptly threw him, landing him onto his back. 

Jason let out a huff, the air escaping him, and the pain evident but not enough to make him do anything. Or something. 

Tim seemed to bounce a little on the balls of his feet, moving back and forth and trying so hard to decide what to do. What Jason was doing, how to react, what it all meant. He could easily slam his bo into Jason’s exposed abdomen, but he seemed conflicted on whether or not this was something else.

Bette had no such turmoil. She slammed a knee into his chest, putting all her weight on it.

Bruce intervened, pulling Bette away as he heard choked, pained coughing and wheezing from Jason. “Flamebird, that’s enough!”

“It won’t ever be enough!” Bette shrieked at him, “Fuck this fucking asshole, I’m going to rip his intestines out his ass!”

Jason started to move, and so Tim nailed him in the shoulder with his bo, perhaps overreacting a little.

“Bette.” Bruce said it firmly, demanding that she back down. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t let her beat the shit out of Jason. 

“He hurt Tim,” Bette growled.

“You can’t just--”

“He hurt _me_ ,” Bette murmured, voice more tremulous and full of seething fury. And yet, also a note of uncertainty. Like she wasn’t sure if that part mattered to Bruce or was allowed.

“Bette...hurting Jason won’t change it,” Bruce said, feeling a small lump in his throat. “I know that was terrifying--”

“Do you? Do you fucking really?!” Bette snarled back, “Oh good, cause now everything’s totally okay, Timbo, it doesn’t matter that this fucking bastard tried to kill us--”

Bruce could see the tight grip Tim had on his bo staff, his gloves likely hiding very white knuckles. He looked tensely at Bruce, eyes behind the goggles both conflicted and scared. He was scared of Jason, and he had every reason to be.

Jason still hadn’t moved from where he was on the floor.

Bruce moved forward, putting a gentle hand on Bette’s shoulder. “It’s not okay, but _you’re_ okay right now. You’re safe, Bette. I won’t let anything happen to either of you.”

Bette let out a huff, crossing her arms tightly.

Tim still hadn’t moved from a tightly defensive stance.

Bruce swallowed hard, and turned to Jason, saying, “Jason. Please--”

“Let them.”

And somehow, Bruce wasn’t that shocked. That Jason would think or hope that letting them beat the shit out of him would balance it out. Would come somewhere near redemption. He continued to lay there, completely vulnerable except for the fact he was wearing the helmet.

Bruce sank down to his son’s level in spite of the reactions from Tim and Bette, who clearly did not think it was a wise move. He reached for Jason’s helmet, and Jason flinched, but let him. He turned his face away when it came off with several clicks, though.

“Jason...look at me, please.” The please turned it into a clear request, almost a plea.

“No. Just let them--”

“I’m not going to have my kids beat you up, Jason. That’s not how this works,” Bruce said back, voice a little softer than he’d typically use while suited up. 

“You fucking should,” Jason grumbled back, still refusing to look at him. “I beat them. I beat the shit out of your goddamn kids, and they need to-to feel like they’re not...not victims.”

Bruce let out a slow sigh. “Jason, they know they’re not just victims. They know that. Beating you won’t change anything.”

“It will. It should,” Jason responded, voice a little raw. “If my—if Willis got his ass beat, he probably...he wouldn’t’a kept doing it. So--”

Bruce’s heart hurt at that. He reached out towards Jason saying, “Jason, you are not him. And you don’t have to be. What you did hurt both of them, but you have a choice—to not do it again. To apologize and do your best to show them you’re not that person.”

He could hear Tim murmur to Bette, “He really is the kid on the mantle...”

Like it had finally been completely confirmed.

And Jason’s composure broke at that, and he started sobbing. Jason had always been an angry crier, but this wasn’t that—the feeling clearly came from somewhere deep in his heart, pain pushing its way to the surface in a way that had Bruce tearing up too. He pulled off his face mask, and, working on instinct, reached out to hold Jason.

Jason let him. Clung, in fact. Not unlike older times, but with an added desperation.

“I’m sorry, I’m so goddamn sorry--” he kept repeating, like no amount of times could help.

And Bruce held him tightly, feeling how warm and alive he was, how he had somehow made it back even though it hadn’t been in a way Bruce would have ever wished for. He could feel Bette and Tim creep forward, and he knew neither of them were that secure about Jason, but they knew they could trust _him_ , and that seemed to be enough.

Suddenly, Tim’s hand reached past Bruce, and patted Jason’s shoulder almost awkwardly. “It’s going to be okay.” His voice was almost ghost quiet, but full of some sort of understanding. Still fear, but tempered by a desire to reach beyond it.

And Bette murmured, “Fuck, man, you can’t expect us to like, do weird shit like that. I mean, fuck. We’re not assholes.”

She still held tension in her voice, but like Jason, like Tim, like any number of his kids, Bruce knew she was determined to not be like her parents. They had been vengeful and petty and generally awful, and she wasn’t about to let herself be them.

Jason had quieted some, face against Bruce’s shoulder, like he couldn’t bear to look at either of them or Bruce.

The shame seemed to come off him in waves.

Bette’s hand was shaking, Bruce realized, and she was reaching towards Jason at first. Instead, though, it redirected towards Tim, and she put an arm around him in a hug. 

Bruce felt he was taking a risk as he asked, “Please, Jason. Come home.”

Jason let out a shuddering breath, and said, “I can’t do that.”

Bruce’s heart fell, but Jason continued on, “But...I, uh...can I come home sometimes? Not to live. If that’s--”

His eyes were darting to Tim and Bette, the vulnerability on full display. Like he needed their permission absolutely.

He kind of did, Bruce knew.

Tim gave a nod. Bette hesitated, then nodded, but added, “If you pull any shit, though, you’re going to get fucked up. Got me?”

Jason nodded back, promising, “No shit.” His voice was shaking, almost weak. He still looked as sickly as he had back then, the months ago that his attack on Tim and Bette had gone down.

Bruce helped Jason stand, watching as he winced at the movement, holding his ribs a little. “Please let me treat you back at the house.”

Jason started to protest, but Bette snorted. “Bro, you’re totally hurt, I’m a strong-ass bitch.”

Tim let out a whisper of a snicker.

And Jason seemed to tremble, a lot, on the short drive back, twisting his gloves in his hands. Bruce got the feeling he was freaking out internally about seeing Dick again.

He gently told him, “No one else is home right now. But, if you want to see any of them, they’ll be back tomorrow.”

Jason nodded mutely.

Treating his hurts was a silent affair. Jason kept looking around at the place, looking like he might cry. He made the small comment on the new TV (still used, but better than their old one) and the lazy boy chair in the corner, but couldn’t seem to find much else to say.

When he made his leave, it was with a lot less answers given than Bruce wanted, but it was with a tentative promise to come back—maybe tomorrow, maybe not.

He let Bruce hug him, hugged back, and disappeared out the door.

Bruce wanted so badly to pull him back inside. He didn’t. 

Bette let out a whoosh of breath, saying, “Okay, who needs some hot chocolate after that? Tim, don’t look at me like that, I’m not participating in your caffeine problem.”

It was like Bette to make a joke out of something heavy. Or rather, to turn the conversation light. Tim immediately jumped in with not having a caffeine problem, thank you very much, coffee was technically healthier than hot cocoa anyway, and they went into their usual debates.

Bruce sank into his chair.

He was half floating on air, knowing he’d seen Jason and Jason had...had somewhat reconciled, was in contact with them again...and half of him hurt.

He had to trust Jason here. Had to trust that he would heal. Because it really wasn’t in his control, as much as he wanted it to be at times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes sense. It was a little hard to articulate, and I felt like this was a sticky one to try.
> 
> Cause it's not fair to Bette or Tim to make them feel unsafe, and Bruce wants to make sure they don't feel that way. Thin, thin line there.


	97. Bite You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce flips a little when he sees Jason seemingly about to bite someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was based on a general feeling of rage.

In some ways, Bruce really understood Jason.

The way that rage welled up in him til it was fist he felt like he needed to swing. The way that he felt helplessly small against injustice too big to even know he existed. The sneers down the nose from people who felt they were better because they were at least one bad day away from ending up without a home or a family to call their own.

So, Bruce did his best to work with what he knew about Jason, and what he seemed to be going through.

This was a day where it was very difficult.

“ _You cannot bite people_ ,” Bruce said sternly. His hold on his son’s arms as he dragged him back towards the house was too tight, but he didn’t want him to get away, his heart beating faster in his chest.

“Fuck you, let go!” Jason screeched at him, kicking him in both the knee and the thigh a couple times. Bruce bore the pain and got him inside as the woman from across the street screamed after them.

He got Jason inside, closing the door, and the instant his grip loosened, Jason pelted across the room—and didn’t go to hide, as Bruce expected.

Instead, he threw a training weight through the TV.

“Holy shit!” Dick shouted, seeing the popping, crackling TV from the kitchen, where he’d been rocking out with his CD player and doing schoolwork. His headphones had been yanked hastily down around his neck.

And Bruce...was angry. First, even knowing he had HIV, Jason had tried to bite someone. Now, he’d broken the TV, and the shards weren’t far from him or Dick.

“ _Jason,_ ” Bruce said sternly, once again, “If you don’t stop that this instant--”

And Jason was all fight, as always, screaming back, “Make me, you motherfucker! Go get fucked up the ass with a--”

“ _Jason!_ ” Bruce felt a little scarily helpless in the face of his son’s rage, and his own anger seemed like a desperate attempt to hold on to _something_ , the prickles of fear in his stomach and the air both hot and cold in his chest. “You can’t go biting people and destroying things because you’re angry--”

The horror on Dick’s face made Bruce’s stomach flip. “ _Jay…?_ ”

Jason looked like he wanted to both snarl and sob. So he did both. “Fuck you, I wasn’t gonna bite her! I didn’t fucking do it, she’s a fucking ass and I had to—to--”

He was practically screaming it all, tears streaming down his face, and Dick looked white as a sheet. Like he didn’t know what to do in the face of the emotional explosion going on before him.

Bruce was trying desperately to swallow the anger frying his nervous system. He realized, somewhat peripherally, that it was also fear. “Jason, take a breath.”

“ _No!_ ” Jason screamed back, hiccuping out a sob in between. “I don’t hafta, fuck you! I don’t owe that bitch nothing, she deserves HIV anyway--”

“ _Jay..._ ” Dick’s almost heartbroken sounding tone seemed to make Jason freeze. Far better than shouting from Bruce would have.

He was hiccuping rather violently now, suddenly trying to look small and anywhere but Dick. “I didn’t...uh...she’s just a fucking bitch, okay?”

His voice still had tones of the raging from before, but also a desperate need for Dick to approve, and not look like Jason had shot somebody. His body quivered, like he didn’t know whether to keep raging or to hide.

Bruce stepped forward carefully, seeing the way his eldest looked almost defeated, or perhaps too shocked to react anymore than he had. Which was almost a surprise, and at the same time, not quite: Dick hadn’t had the rough upbringing that Jason or even Bruce had had. It wasn’t as if he was isolated, but it was a very different world, in the circus.

It definitely wasn’t a world where you could hate someone so much you’d want to infect them with an incurable disease.

Bruce murmured, swallowing the knot of fear and anger in his throat, “Jay, who was that woman? I need you to explain that to me.”

Jason’s breaths were coming fast as he tried to talk, seeing as he hadn’t exactly come down yet. 

Bruce decided calming him down was far more important than interrogation, and gestured towards the chair squeezed between the computer and the old potted plant that Dick had insisted they rescue from the clearance table. “Sit. Please.”

It was just enough of not a command that Jason did it, curling into himself and pressing his face to his knees.

Dick was looking at Bruce in horror, in pleading, as if to say, ‘Jay can’t seriously mean that. He can’t.’ 

Bruce wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders, ruffling his hair to try to bring the color back into his face. Dick was still looking up at him solemnly, though, worry shining through easily in his blue eyes.

Bruce murmured, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Jason had a leaf from the plant in his hand, and he was puncturing it with his nail as he refused to look up.

Bruce waited for his snuffling to die down, and the gasps to breathe properly, and came over to talk to Jason. After deliberating for a moment on whether or not he’d get kicked in the face, he sank down to one knee in front of the chair. “Jason, we need to talk.”

“That’s never a good line,” Jason mumbled, though he did look up. He wasn’t meeting Bruce’s eyes. 

“Well, that depends on how this goes,” Bruce sighed. The anger wasn’t in him anymore, as much as he was confused and upset by Jason’s actions. “Who was that, and why were you fighting with her?”

Jason bit his lip. “She’s a bitch.”

Bruce waited a little. 

Jason finally admitted, “I knew her. Back, uh, then. Well, not very much, but she’s definitely...one of them. One of the...junkies, I guess.”

Bruce’s mind easily filled in the blank: the ones who’d shot up with Jason, and who he’d presumably gotten HIV from. He thought back on the girl, on the clothes she’d been wearing (which had seen better days) and the hollows beneath her eyes. Skinny, hair somewhat unkempt, blotches on her face. The small signs, the ones he hadn’t really bothered to look for because Jason was trying to bite someone and he had to act.

Perhaps he’d registered, but not really in a conscious way.

“What did she want?”

Jason bit his lip. “She said, uh, that if I didn’t give her money, she’d tell you.”

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he just curled in further on himself. 

Bruce’s heart sank a little. He could imagine the feelings that would ignite in Jason. “Were you going to bite her?”

“No! She just said that cause she saw you coming!” Jason insisted, lower lip trembling as he snapped. “I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t really bite anyone.” He turned away, muttering very lowly, “Even if she’s dirty too.”

“Jason, you’re not dirty,” Bruce said, “You’re not. You wouldn’t call someone with diabetes dirty, or someone with cancer or--”

“You don’t get cancer or diabetes by being a dumbass fuck,” Jason replied, tightening his arms around his knees.

“Well, that’s not entirely true--” Dick started.

“Jason, you’re not stupid. You were afraid, and desperate, and it’s not a choice you should have ever had to make. You wanted food, and people, and...” Bruce struggled for words. How was he supposed to convince Jason he was not in a place to make a good decision at the time? How could he even begin to show him? “I don’t think you’re dirty, and anyone who does is wrong.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “Sure.”

“Little Wing, anyone who thinks you’re dirty has a heart two sizes too small,” Dick said, coming over. He came over, and in typical Dick fashion, simply wrapped his arms around Jason’s shoulders. “Or their shoes are on too tight. One or the other.”

Jason snorted a laugh despite himself, and said, “Dork.”

Bruce felt some relief. At least Jason wasn’t raging. “I’m not mad at you, but I do need you to clean up after the mess you made.” Jason started to make a face, and Bruce added, “I’m going to help you, but please don’t smash things again. If you see anyone from that group again, you come and get me, or Dick if I’m not available.”

Jason swallowed, then nodded. He followed Bruce along, looking somewhat guilty as they cleaned up the shards and then carefully removed the TV.

“I’m, uh...I’m sorry I broke it. Now we’re gonna be bored.”

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh at that, even though he didn’t mean to. He smothered it to say, “Thank you, Jason. We’ll make do without Sesame Street for a while.”

Dick was grinning a little, relief on his face. 

They got it cleaned up, and Bruce could hear both of his sons making shadow puppet shows that night.

Bruce would find out later that transmitting HIV through biting was not high risk at all later on, and made that information clear to Jason, also apologizing. Because he realized some that night, and later on, that he really had to be careful not to treat Jason like a leper, or make him feel like one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've often felt powerless and rage and all that shit in my life, and actually, watching Steven Universe, the Bismuth episode, kinda reminded me of that and how it's more universal, at least among anyone who experiences oppression, localized or institutional.
> 
> Jason feels rage, and feels like he has no way to make it heard or make it count. The threat made him furious and feel that same powerlessness all over again, because some days, at this stage, he still believes they'll find a reason to boot him out.
> 
> HIV is not generally transferable through a bit from an infected person, it was definitely an emotional reaction from Bruce and Dick.


	98. I Bet You're Not Even A Feminist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette brings up feminine needs that aren't being met.
> 
> The needs are promptly met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains...TAMPONS and MENSTRUATION MENTIONS O:
> 
> (sorry, I couldn't resist. XD)
> 
> (though, to be fair, if that really disturbs you, consider it a warning?)

“Hey.”

Bette’s hip jutted to the side, and she was absently applying what appeared to be tinted chapstick. She’d been here all of a week, and had yet to completely drop the idea that she was only here on vacation. Bruce thought he’d seen her vacillate a little, but he wasn’t certain.

“Yes?” He looked up from her paperwork. He wanted to make sure she was seeing her doctors and all that, what with the abuse and the potential for illness. It was a new doctor, seeing as the old one was under investigation due to her case.

“So, like, Cass is a girl,” Bette said.

She didn’t continue.

“Yes?” Bruce wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

“And, like, I don’t know if you think she’s like, real weird or some shit, or if you think she got any kinda sex ed, cause like, I think she’s using socks or something...”

“For…?” And Bruce hoped it wasn’t another thing that Bette thought was normal that wasn’t. That was horribly not normal.

Bette rolled her eyes and let out an exaggerated groan. “Oh my god. I’m saying, when she’s fucking bleeding out of her vagina, she’s probably using socks or something cause she doesn’t have any pads or tampons, kay?”

And this brought a weird shock to Bruce’s brain. A little cold, but more like unexpectedly being faced with an open fridge than pure shock. 

Cass had assured him that she didn’t have one...yet. She had amenorrhea, even after her time at his home, from the inadequate nutrition, extreme training, and stress. She had rarely expressed it to him, but he knew being on the streets had taken a heavy toll, and that she also felt she had to keep up her training so she didn’t end up back where she came from.

It was hard to consume enough food.

And even now, it was hard to get her to ease up on training at times. She was convinced that she didn’t just need to protect herself, but also Tim, Steph, Roy, him, and Dick. 

“I...did she tell you this?” Bruce asked carefully. It wasn’t fair to Cass to expose her information. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t care very much, but she also had had very little privacy in general in her life.

He was trying to show her she was allowed.

Bette seemed surprised, but then rolled her eyes again. “Oh my god, Bruce, how do you even keep track of your own head? My god, she’s like, sixteen, of course she needs them! I was looking in the cupboard and there were absolutely none! I mean, I know you’re not exactly a feminist or anything, or woman-savvy or what have you, but oh my god! You have nothing, not even a cup or a sponge or something!”

Bruce took that in, and rather than asking again, he said, “I’ll send Dick out. I didn’t realize we were out. Thank you for letting me know, Bette.” He smiled at her.

She seemed a little surprised as his reaction, but just nodded. “Yeah, good, okay?”

“Would you want to go with him? I’m not sure he’ll know what to get,” Bruce said, “I’m a bit too busy right now, and Cass is occupied.”

Bette watched him a moment, but then a big smile came back. “That’d be totally great! I’ll make sure he doesn’t get anything that’ll give Cass TSS or whatever, mmkay?”

It was fake as hell, but it was okay.

Because Bruce had rather easily reached the conclusion that Bette needed the pads or tampons, and even if that wasn’t the case right now, it’d be good to have them on hand for if she needed them. 

Dick wouldn’t be embarrassed. He’d gotten them for Barbara before.

It didn’t take them long to return with some small, pink and orange and purple packages. And Bette seemed to settle in just a little more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that's Bette. There is some connection between having menstrual products available and feminism, I suppose, but not so much in this case.
> 
> Life has been interesting. I've been getting back in contact with my Grandma, getting into less contact with my mother, who is still pulling some weird shit, and dealing with PTSD nightmares and some shit at work.
> 
> It's been mostly okay. It's not been a disaster. And that's good, I think.


	99. True Pacificism is a Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has feelings about donning a costume like the rest of them.
> 
> The feeling is no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes sense!

“I don’t want to.”

This was the most forceful statement Bruce thought he’d ever heard from Cullen. The boy wasn’t given to honestly forceful statements. Yes, he occasionally made jokes that were along those lines, but this was no joke.

“Come on, baby gay, I had some really good ideas for costumes--” Bette started, clearly put out at the idea of Cullen refusing.

“He’s not even ready yet!” Harper snapped, looking protective.

“It’s not...it’s not that I don’t feel ready,” Cullen murmured, but then his eyes got that sharpness back, that one they so rarely held, and he said, “I just don’t want to.”

Bruce carefully came over. “Okay. It’s all right if you don’t want to join us on the streets, Cullen. That’s very much all right with me.”

Cullen visibly relaxed just a little at that. “Okay, good. Because I wasn’t going to be pressured into doing it anyway.”

Harper had a proud smirk on her face at that.

“Is it because you’re concerned about Sasha?” Bruce asked, knowing the two weren’t exactly close, but that Cullen tended to care about all the members of their little family.

“No. Even if there was nothing to keep me home or stop me, I wouldn’t want to do it,” Cullen said firmly.

“Aw...” Bette complained. “I had a whole theme for you!”

Bruce said, a bit more gently, “Do you want to explain why? You don’t have to if you don’t feel comfortable.”

Cullen let out a soft sigh at that. He looked over at Bette with something like apology or regret, and said, “Because that’s not me. I don’t want to fight anyone. Ever. You know how you said that a true pacifist has to be able to fight? That’s what I’d rather be.”

Bruce nodded, feeling an immense amount of pride suddenly in his chest. He knew Cullen was good enough to start accompanying them, that he _could_ do it if he chose. And he was so insanely proud that he was choosing not to, that he was making his own choices based on what he believed to be right. His own principles.

“I understand,” Bruce said, a smile spreading on his face.

Cullen smiled a little. “I know, I think. I just, I’ve been beat down, and I don’t want to ever be in that position. Even if it seems like the guy deserves it.”

And Harper suddenly seized Cullen in a hug. “I’m so fucking proud, okay? You don’t even know.”

Bette had deflated a little, but finally gave up, saying, “Yeah, I’m proud too.” Her smile was rueful. “I was really excited, but, yeah, you’re right. You gotta do you.”

Cullen grinned, and Bette wiggled her way into the hug.

Bruce was glad not to make another insignia and costume, honestly. He didn’t think he could stop any of his kids that were involved, but there were days he wished he could.

This was a day he was not going to regret, ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found my Cinderella prompt notebook and wanted to do this one a lot!
> 
> It's a thing my teacher said around the time I first showed up at class, and it makes so much sense to me. It kinda fits right in with my life philosophy. Love everyone, unless you have to kick ass, then kick ass well.
> 
> Cause I don't want to harm people, but being able to fight helps me be confident and also protect others. 
> 
> So that's my thought.


	100. The C Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 100th CHAPTER! *screams*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one is the kids' first Christmases in the Wayne household. It is a mega chapter cause I really wanted to make a special one for the 100th.
> 
> Also, the 'C Word' is kinda a tongue in cheek reference to the whole 'they're persecuting us by not saying Christmas!!' deal.

Dick danced excitedly, chattering on and on about…well, Bruce wasn’t sure. It was too early in the morning. It was too early to be up, it was too early to be talking, and it was too early for Dick to be backflipping off of his bed.

“…what?” Bruce finally managed, wondering how, despite being in his late twenties, he felt like an old man.

“Christmas! Christmas is here, and we’re gonna do everything!” Dick’s squeaky voice said that he’d been speaking for so long on the topic that he’d been wound up beyond the point of no return.

Wait.

_Christmas._

Bruce couldn’t have forgotten, Dick had to be wrong. Yeah, he hadn’t really bothered much to celebrate Christmas since he lived alone, but of course he noticed when it happened. Of course, because no one could miss Christmas like that, right?

Wrong, he concluded, as he looked at the date sloppily circled in red marker on the calendar, a goofy Santa Claus doodled next to it.

And Dick was grinning up at him like, well, like it was Christmas. Which it was.

Bruce thought he might be sick, just a little. How could he forget? Better yet, how could he forget he had a small child who fully expected some sort of celebration and—

_Presents._ At least one, not an apologetic look.

He swallowed thickly, fully awake. “Dick, how, uh, how do you normally celebrate Christmas?”

“Easy! We have presents and Mom’s hot cocoa and one of the clowns is Santa and Dad…” Dick’s words had diminished in volume and excitement from the mention of his mother, and dwindled to nothing as he landed on his father.

He bit his lip. “This’s, uh…the first one, huh?”

He looked stricken, like he’d just remembered this was his first Christmas without his parents. Like they were gone even more permanently with this holiday passing.

And Bruce could have kicked himself.

He could easily remember his first Christmas as an orphan. It was hell. He got a present from a charity group (a knockoff transformer that still had a clearance sticker affixed to it) and could still remember a foster kid in the home crying because her doll’s arm came off when she took it out of the box.

It was, evidently, not a good year for the charity.

And to make matters worse, he had no one who knew how his parents had done things—and no one who cared. The old paper advent calendar was long gone, as was the angel with the blue eyes and candle in her hands that went on top of their small Christmas tree. And the more things like that Bruce remembered, the more he felt like he would rather die than suffer through this mockery of a Christmas.

Dick was around the same age as he was. And his blue eyes were misted up, and kind of watery.

Bruce swallowed again, trying to figure out how to salvage this. He felt like an utterly terrible parent, but he should focus on Dick right now, not how he felt. “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

“Yeah…well, no,” Dick admitted, right before he burst into sobs.

Bruce hesitated only a moment, before opening his arms. He was kind of frightened that Dick would reject the hug, shout about hating him, run off in a haze of tears. His heart was kind of pattering in his chest.

But Dick latched on, face buried in Bruce’s sleep-shirt and bathrobe, and sobbed freely. Bruce wrapped his arms around him gently, then hugged him tighter when his felt Dick squeeze his skinny arms around him with more force.

He had to fix this, but Bruce also knew this wasn’t exactly fixable. Not something he could slather duct tape or hugs all over and just have it be a problem no more.

Because Dick missing his parents wasn’t a _problem_ , it was…normal. Natural. A problem would be demanding he didn’t.

Bruce stroked his thumb along the hollow of the back of Dick’s head and neck, murmuring to him comforting things he wished he’d been told his first Christmas. And Dick sobbed, but still cuddled closer, the front of Bruce’s t-shirt very damp.

When Dick had cried himself out, Bruce gently asked if there was something he wanted to do.

“It’s okay,” Dick said, and then he grinned through his tear-streaked face. “I think you forgot, but that’s okay. You forget a lot of things. You should probably get an extra parent or something for here.”

Bruce couldn’t help but laugh at that, ruffling Dick’s hair. “I’m sorry I forgot. Do you want to go make red and green pancakes? I know you like them.”

“And green eggs!” Dick said, grinning at him again. 

“And tomorrow, we’ll see about hitting up the after Christmas sale,” Bruce said, with a small grimace.

Dick laughed at that. He was surprisingly graceful about not getting a proper present on Christmas. He suddenly gave Bruce a very fast squeeze hug, and ran for the kitchen. “Come on, Bruce! Pancakes can’t cook themselves!”

And so that was how they spent the morning. It was a good first Christmas, Bruce thought, and it was the first he’d really paid attention to in a long time.

\--

Jason was…well.

Bruce wasn’t sure what to expect from him when it came to Christmas. He was fairly sure Jason had seen it celebrated, and celebrated it somehow himself. At some points, at least.

He remembered being a small child and looking into the windows of the stores. Or, hell, even wandering through a department store and covetously looking at toys. He hadn’t had a lot of toys when his family was whole, but he’d had them. And ones that his parents knew he’d love, or from kids around the neighborhood passing them on.

And Jason was a bit of a wild card. He often surprised Bruce, considering he’d had an even rougher time in foster care than Bruce had, that he didn’t have quite the same stable base.

Dick had put up the Christmas tree, its limbs fake but the ornaments genuine. Some of them were made by Dick, some were picked out during the after Christmas sales, and so on. Dick had gleefully pointed out the fat Santa tangled in lights to Jason as he was getting out everything, always so invested in decorating.

Now, however, Jason was nowhere to be seen. Bruce had finished putting up some garland on the mantel (a strange addition, given that there was no fireplace, but Bruce took advantage of it to decorate the dojo) to find the room missing one of his sons.

He looked over at Dick, who was proudly beaming at his decoration of the tree, and caught his eye. “Did you see where Jason went?”

Dick’s face sobered up, and he looked around the room. “No. Want me to find him?”

Bruce shook his head. “No, I’ll look.”

He looked upstairs first, as that was one of Jason’s favorite places to hide away from mild discomfort. Under the bed, in the corner, somewhere slightly comfy and where he could hide books as well. He was an avid reader, after all, and as his reactions got less and less severe, he wanted to read.

Sometimes, at least. Not always.

He wasn’t upstairs.

Bruce poked his head in his room, then the bathroom, to be certain, and headed down the stairs. 

Then the smoke alarm went off.

He raced down, ready to put out a fire if necessary, when he saw Dick entering the kitchen. It was slightly smoky, he realized, and he went into the kitchen as well.

Jason was apparently trying to pull blackened, smoking cookies from…the griddle. Which didn’t make a lot of sense, but the chocolate chips seemed to denote they were cookies. That, and the open ‘Cookie Magic!’ cookbook on the floor.

“Jay!” Dick was by his side instantly, turning off the griddle while seizing the spatula from him, scraping the cookies off.

Jason started frantically talking, a little fast to tell what he was saying, but he tried to reach again, and Dick pushed him back. Not hard, but enough to make space.

Bruce rescued the spatula from Dick, telling him, “It’s okay, Dick, I’ve got this. It’s just burnt food.”

Dick seemed to let out a breath, and turned to Jason. “Jay, you coulda been burned!”

And Jason’s lower lip trembled violently, before he shouted, “No, I woulda been fine!”

He was crying now. Jason tended towards both angry crying and sad crying and even frightened crying, and now it seemed to be a mixture. 

Bruce had salvaged the situation, smoking cookies dumped in the sink, and the griddle cooling down. He turned back to Jason. “What were you doing?”

Jason sobbed, “I wanted to make cookies for you assholes, but I can’t because it’s stupid!”

His face was rapidly pink, and Bruce could see Dick’s expression battle between confusion and ‘must hug my brother.’ 

“It’s all right, Jason,” Bruce consoled, still confused too. “I know you were just trying to make cookies.”

Jason continued to sob angrily anyway.

Dick hugged him, letting him hide his red and tear-streaked face. “Hey, Jaybird, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

As Jason calmed, Bruce felt like he had to ask. “Jason, I know you were trying to make cookies, but…why were you making them on the griddle?”

“Cause I’m not allowed to use the oven!” Jason said vehemently. “And I wanted to make Christmas cookies like my mom—“

He choked off at that, burying his face in Dick’s shoulder.

Bruce let out a sigh at that, but it was because he felt both pride and sorrow for Jason. Pride, because he was trying so hard and had evidently gotten pretty far with the cookie making before the oven obstacle. Sorrow, because he knew Jason still missed Catherine Todd, his foster mother. The one person he’d considered a parent before Bruce.

“Well…I’m not that good at baking, but we can try to make Christmas cookies together, if you want,” Bruce said, reaching over to pet back Jason’s hair. 

It had been almost a year since Jason had joined them. So much had changed—and Jason suddenly hugging Bruce was not a total surprise, even if he did it lightning quick and then seized up the book, as if embarrassed at having done that much. “Yeah, well, we don’t have, uh,” he hiccupped, still blotchy-faced, voice shaking a little from crying, “We don’t have anymore chips. Chocolate ones or anything.”

Bruce nodded. “How about peanut butter cookies?”

“Snickerdoodles!” Dick said excitedly.

Jason nodded sagely. “Yeah, we can do that.” He hiccupped again, and then seized a mixing bowl.

They hadn’t had fresh cookies before for Christmas, but this was an improvement Bruce treasured. And oven use was granted, provided Bruce or Dick were in the house, from then on.

\--

Tim had probably sat through a lot of Christmas parties.

At least, that was the impression Bruce got when he got more and more droopy towards Christmas. He seemed to see poinsettias in people’s windows and just let out a silent sigh, or see the Christmas displays in stores with a sort of resigned melancholy.

Bruce wanted to be prepared for Tim. Wanted to make sure he had a good Christmas, separated from most of what he knew. He was still nervous, on edge, in general, and Bruce worried a lot about him.

Dick had decorated the tree, beckoning for Tim to join him. Tim stuck to the macaroni ornaments, the things that he couldn’t break easily. He refused to smile, solemnly putting each ornament on the tree like it was a chore.

Despite Dick’s consistent attempts to get Tim to join him in singing classic Christmas songs, Tim’s reactions tended to range from bewilderment to just pure silence—and no singing.

Bruce let it go. Tim might be missing his family, or the world he used to know, and Christmas was a time that put that in sharp relief. He knew he, Dick, and Jason had had some rough adjustments like that.

But Christmas Eve was what clued him in it wasn’t entirely about missing people, if it really was at all.

They’d been sitting around the Christmas tree, which had its almost pastel lights on and sparkly gold garland, and Dick announced, “Okay, so, new tradition: everyone gets to open one, and exactly one, present early. Fair?”

Bruce got the feeling Dick was a little bothered by Tim’s obvious lack of enjoyment, so he nodded. He’d gotten Tim a few things, and Dick had too—plus, of course, there were the oddly shaped packages Dick had for him and the pile of presents for Dick.

The extremely neatly wrapped presents, precisely two of them, were from Tim to Dick and Bruce, respectively.

Tim looked slightly alarmed, but then sank back down into his somber attitude.

“Okay, you first, Tim!” Dick said cheerily, and he tossed one of his presents at Tim.

Tim caught it, looking at Dick like he was an alien, and set to work very carefully unwrapping it. He peeled back each piece of tape delicately, until he was left with the whole piece of undamaged wrapping paper. Then he finally looked at the present.

His eyes widened. He looked to Dick in equal parts shock and horror.

It was a rather large teddy bear, one that held, of all things, a logo for a company in its paws. Bruce didn’t even recognize the company, but the bear had seemingly smiling black eyes, rounded ears, and a slightly golden tint to its brown fur. Its nose was red.

“How--” Tim choked a little, “How did you—when—what did I--”

“Calm down Tim, it’s okay,” Dick said, smiling a little. “I saw it in a picture. I, uh, I saw the way you were gripping it, and I thought--” he seemed to falter a little, like he wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing, “I thought you might want it back, and it might make you feel comfy here.”

Tim didn’t say anything, but the way his hands were gripping the bear said a lot. He didn’t seem sure enough to bring it close to his body or hug it, but he murmured, “They destroyed him, it can’t be him--”

“It’s not the exact same bear,” Dick admitted, “but it is from the same run.”

And Tim abruptly started to cry, and Dick took that as an invitation to hug him. It turned out he was right, because Tim hugged him tightly. 

Bruce could feel a lump in his throat, suddenly insanely proud of Dick. Tim hadn’t brought any toys with him, and maybe Bruce had kind of presumed he hadn’t had any, or hadn’t had any he particularly was attached to. He was clearly very wrong on that assumption, one he hadn’t really realized he’d made.

It turned out the bear had been some company advertising thing, but Tim had been given one since it was a business that worked closely with his father's. And that had been thrown out years ago, apparently when Tim had wet the bed and his mother had said it was 'safer and cleaner' to just trash the bear rather than try to wash it.

Tim had pretty swiftly forgotten they were supposed to all open a present early, but Bruce let that drop, exchanging a look with Dick as Tim's face was buried in the bear's neck, the thing almost bigger than his torso and his arms partially hidden among the fur.

It was a good Christmas. Tim had informed them, rather wetly, that 'being happy on Christmas' was 'supposed to be just in movies' but he'd been swiftly reassured that was not the case.

The rest of the evening was spent curled up on the couch and watching old Christmas films. 

\--

Cass's first Christmas with them was something Bruce was worried about. It wasn't only for her sake, though--

“What’s even wrong with this tree?!”

It was for Tim, who was successfully putting his stress at the absolute max trying to make Christmas ‘perfect’ for Cass.

And for Dick, who was both trying to reign Tim in and show Cass that Christmas was in fact, _fun_ , not the stressful thing that was bringing Tim near tears.

“How is this CD even scratched? It wasn’t scratched last Christmas!” Tim’s voice cut through Bruce’s attempts to detangle the lights, and he looked up to see his son was done stressing about the way the tree was hanging crookedly and now was stressing about the fact the CD was skipping.

Cass was sitting next to Bruce, eyebrows raised and doing nothing.

“Tim, we have other CDs,” Dick pointed out, then he turned to Cass. “Hey, Cassie, you want to help me make cookies? We always make cookies on Christmas, it’s fun and relaxed.”

“Do we have brown sugar for the chocolate chip ones?” Tim fretted, apparently able to stress himself without even knowing their levels of brown sugar. “Oh my god, I don’t think we have _chocolate chips_ …”

“Deep breaths, Tim, we’ll make snickerdoodles,” Dick said, trying very hard to be comforting.

Cass still had that eyebrow raise going on, watching Tim frantically try to do very foreign things and Dick try to make up for it, sort of.

“We might not have cinnamon!”

“Tim, we totally have cinnamon. Now, Cass, how about—“

“What if they get burned? If the fire alarm goes off, it might alarm the neighbors.”

Cass suddenly stood, and stated, “I’ll do a Dad thing.”

Bruce was bewildered, to say the least, as all of them were. He looked over at Cass, trying to determine what she meant—and who or what she meant by ‘Dad.’

She seemed to instantly take in their confusion, and said, “Come on.” She grabbed Bruce’s arm, and then suddenly a certain amount of hesitancy came into her posture, an almost questioning look on her face.

It dawned on Bruce that she meant she wanted to do something with him—and that she was directly calling him Dad. He nodded, maybe a bit too fast, feeling a slight lump in his throat which he quickly cleared and said, “Of course. Did you want to help me with putting lights on the tree?”

Cass’s hesitancy completely melted away, and she smiled. “Yes.”

It seemed her certainty, and giggling at crookedly placing the lights, brought both Tim and Dick to an easier state, Tim finally relaxing at seeing Cass was having a good time, and Dick relaxing because now both of his siblings were having a good time.

It was funny, how all of them could be so interconnected.

Christmas morning brought with it what Bruce thought to be an appropriate amount of glee at getting to rip up paper—Cass enjoyed that a lot, and started a paper wad war, nailing Tim between the eyebrows before Dick shouted ‘It’s on!’ and everyone was throwing wads of paper at each other.

It was silly, it was fun—and it was a good first Christmas, Bruce thought, especially as Cass looked at him with absolutely starry eyes as she held the large dinosaur toy. It wasn’t just that it was what she wanted, he knew—it was that she knew he loved her.

And he found himself near tears at the thought.

\--

Christmas, understandably, did not go off without a hitch with Bette involved.

Roy would have probably been agreeable to the idea of having an easy Christmas, or almost none at all, but Bette was the type to expect a production. Or, rather, her upbringing meant that Christmas was always a production.

The only warning Bruce got of this, Christmas Eve day, was Tim’s uttering of, “Holy...” before Bette burst onto the scene.

She was, for lack of a better term, glammed out. Her makeup was extreme, to the point that Bruce thought she might expect to be on a magazine cover. Contouring, eyebrow sculpting, very shiny red lipstick...she looked almost like a doll.

And her dress was also red, a spaghetti strap one that had sparkling snowflakes. Bruce thought she might have put makeup on her neck and chest as well. Her hair was in flawless curls, shinier than Bruce thought he might have ever seen it. And that was saying something.

“I’m ready,” was her announcement.

“Shit, we were supposed to dress up?” Roy murmured, burying his head under a couch pillow. Technically, he was indeed the least dressed up, with his sweatpants and old Sonic t-shirt, but it wasn’t exactly like Bruce had planned for anyone to dress up.

Cass’s head was tilted to the side as she seemed to try to figure this one out.

“Ready for…?” Bruce asked, blinking a little. 

“The Christmas Photo,” Bette _and_ Tim said at the same time, though in different tones entirely: Bette with exasperated certainty, and Tim with dawning realization.

Bette looked at Tim, saying, “What, did I get ready too early? Shit, now I have to like, wear this all day!”

And that was about when Bruce realized what she was talking about. He faintly recalled getting a Christmas photo or two from people prior to being in foster care, and it was about as cheesy as you could imagine, in his opinion.

People with their children or pets, photographed in typically holiday-themed backdrops or with props, and then mass-mailed out as postcards to let people know you remembered them. Or something along those lines.

Bruce thought it was mostly for showing off. 

Roy more firmly held the pillow over his head, groaning at the thought of photographs.

Surprising Bruce, Tim was the one who offered an explanation. 

“Bette, we don’t do those. We don’t really have a lot of people to send them to anyway.”

The way Bette deflated was curious, like she wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or pissed off. “Huh. Well, that’s like, it’s really weird, cause how would they even know you’re okay or whatever? But, yeah. I guess I’ll go take all this shit off, right?”

Bruce paused, and then surveyed the room quickly. Most people weren’t really photo-ready, but still...they had a camera. Tim loved taking pictures.

“Wait.” All heads swiveled to look at him.

“We can do a photo.”

Roy groaned, but not very loudly. He still held the pillow firmly over his head.

“Can I do Cass’s makeup?” Bette was instantly on board, grinning a little at the prospect of putting makeup on Cass. 

“Dick and Bette are the only ones who’ll look good,” Tim protested, then amended, “And Cass, probably. But what about the rest of us?”

Rather than point out that Tim had included him in the category of ‘looks bad in photos’, Bruce said, “It’s just a photo for us. As a family. We don’t need to send it to anyone, but...” He paused a moment, and continued, “It would be nice to have a picture of all of us.”

He didn’t add anything dramatic, like ‘In case something happens,’ though he would always regret not having more pictures of Jason, or of Jason, him, and Dick, but Tim and even Roy seemed to get the importance.

Bette grinned widely, showing off very white teeth, and turned to Tim and Roy. “Okay, so we gotta get you dressed up! Dick, you totally have a white shirt or some shit that Roy can wear, right?”

Roy begrudgingly dragged himself off the couch, heaving a sigh. Dick, however, having just shown up in the room, was on board without even knowing why they were dressing Roy up.

Cass surprisingly gleefully pitched in with getting everything ready, dressing up in her black dress and flecking some of Bette’s glitter on her face. Then she helped Dick throw a sheet over the couch and they started getting people situated.

Tim looked a little sour, or maybe just generally not happy at getting his photo taken. He was a little camera shy, at least from Bruce’s experience. He preferred to be on the other side.

Dick, on the other hand, was photogenic as all get out and very camera comfortable. He got everyone in their places, Bette helpfully cataloguing by height.

Finally, people were in their places.

“Okay. So, the camera will take three seconds to go off,” Tim intoned, carefully balancing the camera. It belonged to him, after all, and he was sometimes a little possessive of his things.

“Okay! We got it, Timbo!” Bette said brightly, grinning for the camera.

Tim pressed the button and _ran_ , plopping on the couch next to Dick.

Dick apparently decided that Tim was too tense, because he suddenly seized him in a hug, and that got Tim’s sheepish smile out, instead of the pasted camera smile they all knew too well.

Cass, on the other hand, looked like a million Christmas lights, very excited about all the picture taking, and seeming to be mid-bounce in all three pictures that the camera took in succession. She was holding Bette’s hand, and this made the second and third pictures a short progression of Bette breaking in laughter.

Roy managed to smile, tired-looking but still pleased to be where he was.

And Bruce found himself at the center of it all, the small chaos that was his family.

That was a picture that went on the mantel.

–

Damian was not terribly familiar with Christmas. As either a concept, or as something he celebrated.

In fact, he seemed extremely put upon and grumpy as it came up.

Things were a little more on edge this year, to be fair.

And there was no chance Jason would be joining them, despite the fact he was alive, and Damian seemed to set off more than one member of the family quite easily (Bette, Tim, even Roy sometimes), so it was a bit more somber for Bruce than perhaps was normal.

But, again, this year was going to be something else, for sure.

It was only when Bruce came upon Bette shouting at Damian for trying to break the advent calendar that Bruce realized he might need to actually talk to Damian about it.

“Damian. Please come over here so we can talk,” he said, and Damian begrudgingly stalked over. He sat down stiffly on the couch, seeming to almost glare at his father.

“What.”

Bruce sighed. “I can’t help but notice you seem very tense.”

Damian scowled. “Yes, because I’m always so relaxed.”

And there went the sarcasm again. He seemed to enjoy being sarcastic to literally of them, especially when he didn’t understand where the conversation was going. Bruce got the feeling it made him feel like he had some control. 

“Damian, I know you’re dealing with a lot, but can you please talk to me about this? Is Christmas--”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas!” Damian snapped, before he could even ask, “And you just have brought all your things in here, and they are everywhere, like a disease! There is no use for any of these things!”

Bruce was a little surprised about the viciousness in Damian’s tone. “...okay. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know it upset you.”

“Yes, you did! That’s why you did it, because you want me to do all the things your so-called other children do!” 

Damian was clearly very ticked off. He hadn’t harped on the ‘real son’ thing for a while. 

Bruce took a breath, ignoring the twinge he felt at the implication Damian had made. “Damian. I understand you’re frustrated, but please don’t hurt your siblings over this. _Or_ their feelings.”

Damian scowled.

Bruce continued. “Is there a holiday around this time you usually celebrate?”

Damian scowled harder, growling, “You just want to make me be quiet so you can have your American holiday. I’m not Christian and I’m not American either!”

“Damian, I don’t want you to be anything but yourself. You don’t have to celebrate Christmas with us if you don’t want to. I wanted to know if you had something else to celebrate around this time because you matter to me, and I want you to be happy,” Bruce said, looking across at Damian.

Damian sharply looked away, stubbornly silent.

Bruce sighed. “I can’t help you if you won’t tell me what you need or want.”

But Damian stayed silent, for several minutes. At the moment Bruce started to rise, though, sure that he wasn’t getting anywhere, he suddenly tucked his knees into his chest and murmured, “I want to go home. Where it isn’t so stupidly cold and dreary.”

Bruce sank back down onto the couch, and looked across at Damian. He could see the way his eyes were slightly shiny, the way he determinedly looked down. Like he couldn’t bear for Bruce to see how weak he was, how much he wanted to be elsewhere.

“Damian, that’s...that’s a valid feeling. Gotham is...it is very dreary and cold in the winter. And your home was a lot nicer, in that way.”

Damian sniffled, then hunched in tighter, kind of angrily, at the betrayal by his nose. “I don’t want Mother. I don’t. I just want to go home.”

Bruce sort of doubted that that was true. Despite how coldly Talia had left Damian here, and how toxic the relationship had to be, it was clear that both cared for the other.

“That’s okay—That’s understandable, Damian. I know all of your siblings miss places and people, even though they’re here now and they’re mostly happy.”

Damian refused to respond to Bruce.

Bruce sighed a little. “I’m sorry I can’t take you back there. But, in the meantime, we can try to make the best of this Gotham weather. That’s part of why people celebrate Christmas, you know—because this is when the nights get the longest and the worst. People would go stir-crazy otherwise.”

“So, pretty baubles and inane gifts make winter bearable for most people?” Damian’s tone was full of disdain. Then, however, he followed it up with, “If it works, I suppose it’s not entirely stupid.”

And Bruce wanted so badly to make Christmas better for Damian. Or to have something equally dear to him, or that would bring the same joy to his face. He doubted this holiday ever would.

But Damian stood, moving towards the kitchen. “It intend to make sure Dra—Timothy doesn’t burn the salad.” And then, ever so quickly, he mentioned, “Some years, we’ve celebrated the Winter Solstice. Not every year, though.”

And then he hurried to the kitchen, trying not to look like he was hurrying, or that he’d imparted information that was clearly very dear to him.

Some research revealed to Bruce various things he could do the celebrate the Winter Solstice, and while he had rather short notice, they managed to pull it off.

Damian didn’t strictly look happy, but he seemed happier than he’d been.

–

Harper was in a funk, clearly.

Bruce saw her sitting out on the front porch. Despite the cold, she persisted, staring off down the street. Her hands were folded between her knees, and she had a bend to her back.

He opened the screen door, and it creaked, as always. “Harper? Did you want to come inside?”

Obviously, she probably would have come inside if that was what she wanted, but he felt it was a nonthreatening opening. She was wearing a pretty thick sweater, and leggings, but no coat. Her tongue played with her lip piercing, and Bruce waited for an answer.

“Meh. Not really,” Harper finally said.

Bruce stepped out, letting the door close. “I’ll join you. It’s supposed to snow soon.”

She shrugged.

The porch was cold as he sat on it, and he wondered that Harper could stand it. He wouldn’t want to sit out here for long, in any case.

The snow was starting to come down in scattered flakes, nothing huge. The road was still a little slushy from the last snow a week ago. It smelled cold and wet outside, and the tip of Bruce’s nose already was starting to ache a little from the chill.

But Harper was determined to stay out here, evidently, and she was silent.

He stayed silent with her, looking off in the dark gray sky.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

Harper’s sudden burst of words were surprising and yet not. It tended to be how she opened up at all. Bruce turned to look at her, and she continued. “I mean, at this point, I’m just extra. He doesn’t need me like at all.”

And it was pretty clear what she was talking about. Bruce said, “What makes you think Cullen doesn’t need you?”

Harper huffed, saying, “Well, how about the fact that he’s got all he needs _here_. I could barely keep a goddamn roof over our heads! And me getting him fucking snack cakes or something was _Christmas_ for us, okay? Couldn’t even have fucking lights cause god knew if the power would stay on.”

Bruce understood the feeling, somewhat. All her life, Harper had looked out for Cullen, and he’d done his best to support her in return. Now, neither of those things were strictly necessary for survival. Their roles for each other had changed—and that was a rough transition for anyone.

“Harper, who does Cullen go to when something bad happens?”

“What?” Harper looked over at Bruce. “For fuck’s sake, what kinda question--”

“Harper,” Bruce said gently, as if reminding her the question was valid. Or letting her know that he wasn’t asking dumb questions.

Harper huffed. “It’s me. But _sometimes_ it’s Dick, or Tim, or Bette--”

“They’re his siblings now, too, Harper, but your bond isn’t going to go away because of them,” Bruce said. “He still loves you, and still depends on you.”

Harper rolled her eyes, glaring at the house across the street. “I know that. I know, okay? But what do I even do with myself? I mean, yeah, I’ve got shit to do, but...”

She trailed off, staring off at the house now. 

Bruce spoke. “Harper, I know you did a lot for Cullen. More than you should have had to—you were like his parent, and he was sort of yours in return. Both of you had to act like adults far too soon.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” Harper growled, able to latch onto that easily.

“Well,” Bruce continued, “It was how you adapted to survive. And now that you don’t have to just survive, it might be a hard adjustment.”

Harper was quiet again. 

“Yeah,” she finally said. “I mean, I once had to go after these assholes with a baseball bat, cause they wanted to...well, they wanted to beat the shit out of Cullen. Cause, you know—it’s so fucking fun to beat up gay kids, right? I mean, I held him all night. He was fucking—he was terrified. He was terrified, and I didn’t know if I could protect him, but I knew I’d die to do that if I had to.”

Her eyes were wet, and she sniffled. “How do you go from that, to fucking decorating a Christmas tree and listening to those idiots squabbling over Christmas cookies?”

And Bruce let out a soft sigh. He knew that feeling all too well, and hell, he’d seen it in Jason, in Cullen, in most of his kids, to some extent. He fished a handkerchief out of his pocket, knowing Harper did not want a hug from him, and handed it over. “You manage it, but it’s not easy.”

Harper sniffled loudly again, wiping at her face. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s for fucking sure.”

Abruptly, she hugged him, startling him a little, but she let go and hopped up on her feet, saying a little wetly, “Come on, I gotta go give that dork a hug. He made me cry.”

Bruce smiled and nodded, and followed her inside.

There, Harper suddenly squeezed the living daylights out of Cullen, and Cullen hugged back, slightly bewildered but pleased nonetheless. 

That Christmas went off surprisingly well.

–

Sasha was on board with celebrating Christmas, much to Bruce’s surprise.

She was even wearing the knit Christmas tree patterned hat that Jason got her.

Jason was sitting on the couch and watching over her like she was his kid. Bruce got the impression of a mother bird watching a fledgling. It was amazing, honestly, how Sasha had helped Jason return, even if he didn’t live with them. More than one of the others didn’t live at home right now as well.

It was a different kind of return than moving in.

Cullen was sitting across from Sasha at the moment, and both were threading old popcorn to put on the tree. Apparently, this was something Sasha had requested, though she’d only told Jason.

He said it was something that she had done at home.

Bruce definitely didn’t expect a Christmas miracle of any kind when it came to the ski mask she still would not take off, or at least not for long periods. Negative reactions from strangers and the like had been more than enough to send her retreating back to it.

The unspoken rule for this Christmas had been no loud, sudden noises. Those tended to set Sasha off, to put her in a place of panic and fear. And she was a fighter, and had gotten in what could have been disastrous confrontations with the others already.

However, there was some Christmas music in the background, and Bruce could hear several of the older kids in the kitchen, discussing various things. Right this second, it sounded like love lives.

Bruce smiled to himself to hear Dick animatedly talking about Kori, and Bette returning rapid fire with comments about how her gf was, in fact, hotter and better in every conceivable way. It was clear they were entirely joking, as they often were.

It was about when Harper made the comment about Kori being able to both fight and look so good that she could ‘do me anytime’ in spite of neither of them being gay that Bruce brought his attention back to Sasha, who was now sitting against Jason’s leg on the floor. Jason was clearly pretending he wasn’t affected, flipping through one of their old books, but Bruce easily read the look on his face.

He was feeling practically paternal, overwhelmed with the fact this smaller human had decided to place her trust in him.

Cullen was finishing looping the popcorn strands on the tree, and Bruce joined him.

It was as this mellow scene was playing out that Damian showed up. His eyes were a bit guarded, and he had his arms behind his back. He came towards Sasha without a word, and Bruce could see Jason tense a little, but Sasha just watched.

Damian suddenly squatted down to be at her level, and said, almost imperiously, “Given that it is Christmas, and you are a child, I have a gift for you.”

Bruce could tell Cullen was stifling a laugh. Hell, he was too. He was stifling it because he knew that Damian meant it very seriously, but frankly it was hilarious and adorable that he was addressing Sasha that way. Because they were actually around the same age, and Damian seemed to be both approaching her like she was a cat, and a business associate.

Sasha watched as Damian moved the gift out from behind his back. It was perfectly wrapped, the exact shape of a picture frame.

She accepted it, as he handed it over rather solemnly.

She ripped off the shiny gold wrapping paper, and found a picture of Damian’s underneath. Bruce couldn’t quite see it, but he could see Sasha’s reaction—watering eyes, and then suddenly hugging Damian.

Damian took it well, for Damian. “Yes, well, a hug is appropriate,” he managed, “Given that it is Christmas.”

He awkwardly looped his arms around her, a little stiff.

She pulled back, and it looked like she was grinning. The edge of her lip was still scarred, so it interfered a little with the expression, but her teeth were on full display, and she turned to Jason, saying, with her Russian accent tinging the words, “Look, it’s me!”

And it was.

Bruce could see the picture, and the image was of a girl in red cloak, part of her face showing. It was a part of her face that was scarred in reality, but Damian had apparently guessed and guessed well at what she looked like before. But, there wasn’t so much face showing that it was overt that he hadn’t added the scars; it was small. The focus was more on the billowing cape, the way it looked like she was flying.

Damian reddened at the way Jason looked at him; he still hadn’t adjusted to people being genuinely grateful or the like.

Bruce smiled, and he could see Cullen across from him, looking like he really wanted to hug Damian. Like he was so proud, and Bruce knew exactly that feeling, because he was having it too.

Damian quickly shuffled over to the tree, unable to take all the positive attention, and started moving the popcorn garland. Cullen patted the back of his head affectionately, and Damian let him.

Bruce put a hand on his shoulder, as Sasha was distracted showing Jason the image in more detail, saying, “I’m proud of you. You did good.”

Damian flushed a little, but there was such honest happiness and shock in his eyes. “Yes, well, I had to give her _something_.”

And, of course, he didn’t. In reality, he had no obligation.

But that only made it all the better.

–

Bruce had never thought he’d hold one of his kids at a tiny, tiny age.

And he’d also never thought he’d get to have a Christmas with a tiny child.

But, he was proven wrong on both counts, as Helena excitedly gnawed and shook and played with everything her many siblings had gotten her. Her dark head of hair bobbed as she grinned up at him, pushing along a bus toy that made a frankly obnoxious amount of noise.

He’d accurately predicted she’d be spoiled come Christmas, and she was indeed.

Bruce got the feeling, as the others interacted with her, that it would be that way for a long time—and it wasn’t necessarily bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so that's Helena. :)
> 
> And if you have any questions, lemme know!


	101. I'm trying to eat here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Bruce go out to eat.
> 
> Things don't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains ableist shit. You've beened warned.

It was much more difficult to get Sasha out of the house early on, but gradually, she got more comfortable. For the longest time, she absolutely required her ski mask, and wouldn’t leave the house without it, no matter how much that fucked things up.

Her scars were extensive and still healing, though, so Bruce could understand. It wasn’t how she preferred to look, and while it was looking better and better as they went to a proper doctor and he did what he could, there was no hiding the slash marks.

At least, not without the ski mask.

But, the past couple of weeks, she’d been tentatively not using the mask. Mostly on short trips or trips where she wasn’t likely to have much direct interaction, but Bruce was proud—and cautious not to upset this fledgling confidence. 

They’d gone to Taco Bell to celebrate her having finished her math textbook, and she was happily digging into several soft tacos—she enjoyed the kind with chicken instead of beef. Bruce really didn’t get how much any of his kids enjoyed the food, but it was hot and it wasn’t terribly expensive, so it made a good treat.

“…and I know I will be ready for the next one, algebra is not that hard,” Sasha was telling him, riding high on the crest of having finished the textbook early. 

“I know you will. Don’t rush—“

“I can’t help rushing, it’s too easy,” Sasha said, a crooked smirk on her face. Her eyes were sparkling, a positively mischievous look in them.

Bruce laughed a little at that, letting it go for now. As far as he could tell, she did have all the concepts down. She was very dedicated to learning, finding it absorbed her mind. He felt he often had to remind her to just relax a little, as her hobbies tended to be high tension or goal focused in a way that just playing wasn’t.

This was a moment where she was clearly relaxing and just having some fun. 

“Do you want a churro? I’d like to get one, now that we’re here,” Bruce said, smiling a little ruefully. He did find an odd satisfaction in the treat, even though he wasn’t a big fan of the rest of the food there. It was nostalgia, he thought, rather than much merit on the part of the thing itself.

It was nostalgia. He and Jason used to get them, and they’d been off the menu here for a while.

Sasha grinned at him, a crooked smile, and said, “Get me two! I’ve been very good.”

Bruce shook his head, and went to get them. As he ordered from the kid at the counter, he thought back on the progress Sasha had made. He got the sense she’d always had a sense of confidence and a smart mouth, but it had taken her a while to get them back. It was understandable, of course, with what she’d been through. Bruce didn’t think any of his kids had been through such a violent method of being orphaned, though it certainly wasn’t a contest.

As it was, he paid his two dollars and headed back towards the booth, nodding absently to the cashier telling him he could enter the sweepstakes at the bottom of the receipt.

Dick liked to enter those, saying that it ‘wasn’t for the glory,’ but rather because good reviews of someone’s work was great in the service industry, since one had to fill out a survey.

Sasha was actually coloring on the napkins, and Bruce recognized some of Damian’s crayons. She seemed to be in a fantastic mood, and held up a scribble of Damian’s dog, Titus. “This is that dumb dog slobbering on Damian.”

Bruce shook his head with a smile. He handed over the churro, and she started chowing down.

It was about then that a middle aged man, the manager, came over. He looked slightly nervous, but he said, firmly, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Bruce was surprised, to say the least. He couldn’t possibly imagine a reason for being asked to leave. “May I ask why?”

His tone wasn’t as firm as he should have made it, but he only realized after the manager explained. “Customers have been complaining about you and your daughter.”

The manager wouldn’t look at Sasha, and would barely look at Bruce, especially not in the eyes.

“My daughter is not doing anything wrong,” Bruce said. “And I haven’t done anything wrong either.”

“Yes, well...some of the customers are saying that...uh,” the manager took on a firmer tone, like he’d chicken out if he didn’t. “Your daughter makes it difficult for them to enjoy their food.”

It clearly hit Sasha faster than Bruce, all the color draining from her face, a dumbfounded shock in her eyes.

The shock hit Bruce pretty hard too. These people were complaining because Sasha had _facial scars?_

And then the fury hit, and he rose from his seat, fast enough that the manager took two steps back. “Sir, I’m just asking you politely to leave, if you would, it’s not--”

“Nothing about what you’ve done is polite or civil, _sir_ ,” Bruce spat back, already feeling an ache in his temple from the red hot anger in his skull. “How can you treat a fourteen year old girl like this? She’s a _child_ who has been through _hell_ , and you have the gall to—to—to--”

He was losing his ability to articulate. He was furious, he couldn’t even imagine the pain Sasha was in, the huge setback, and he wanted so badly to put the people who complained in her position. Let them see how it felt for people to treat you like you were gross or frightening. Let them have people complain about them daring to exist in their presence.

But Sasha suddenly stood and ran, out the door and into the parking lot, and Bruce couldn’t stay here to be furious.

He managed to catch up to her, finding her hiding under her hood near a telephone booth and not exactly containing her sobs. He started to reach out to her, but she screamed at him, “I want Jason! _I want Jason!_ ”

Bruce calmly gave her her space, and called Jason.

Jason showed up within fifteen minutes, and wrapped his arms around Sasha, murmuring things with ‘Little Red’ in them that Bruce didn’t listen in on. Sasha sobbed and hiccuped and pressed her face into his chest, and Bruce knew, even after Jason soothed her enough to get her to come back home, that this was a major setback.

The ski mask was back, and back with a vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like this was a thing, cause even my sis (the asshole sis) lowkey got this from people at times when she had a broken leg and it looked kinda gnarly and/or smelled. She might be an asshole at times, but she didn't deserve for anyone to treat her like that.
> 
> And frankly, some people are real assholes about people with disabilities of any kind. Even I get that, and I generally don't come across as disabled to people. If they assume I'm mentally challenged, though, which happens, they do tend to treat me pretty shitty.


	102. The (Unadvertised) College Experience (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim discovers an extra stressor in going to college for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim's mom is a little batshit, so this involves stalking stuff again.

Bruce hadn’t seen Tim in a panic like this in a long time.

He was flying from device to device, cell phone, laptop, house phone, and refused to leave his room. He was a mess, his hair was impressively ruffled, his sweater was on backwards, and he seemed to be almost dropping things at every turn.

And he’d already been fairly stressed about starting college in a few days, so this was above and beyond that.

“Tim,” he finally said, when Tim didn’t respond at all to his standing the doorway, “What’s wrong?”

Tim looked up, and his eyes were wide, almost like he had to replay what Bruce said in his head to be able to understand and answer. “M-m-my, um—“ he took a gulping breath, “She said she’s coming to my college orientation with me. _With me._ ”

“Janet?” Bruce asked, not sure who else it could be, but also astonished at the sheer audacity.

“Yeah, how could she even—I didn’t tell her I was even going to college, much less which one!” Tim’s words were fast. “I’m trying to think of—of how she could even know—“

“Wait. Slow down, explain. How did she contact you?” Bruce put a hand carefully on his son’s shoulder, feeling the extremely tense muscles there.

Tim took several fast breaths that were clearly supposed to be deep breaths. “Okay. Okay. Just—she sent me an email. From a new address. ‘JDrake@Gotham.net’. Just look.”

And Tim handed him his laptop, and there indeed was the email.

_Dear Timmy,_

_I was so proud to find out you’re attending your grandpa’s alma mater! Grandpa Drake also went to Gotham University, though it was smaller back then. I’ll be sure to bring your school records to the orientation on the 28th. I’ll meet you in the parking lot by the biochemistry building. See you then._

_Love,  
Mom_

The absolute sureness was astounding, frankly. Despite having been so soundly out of Tim’s life for years, despite his clear rejection of her attention, despite _everything_ , she spoke like this was the natural course of their relationship and like he’d expect her to be there. Like it was _normal_.

And the fact she knew, despite not being Tim’s legal guardian prior to his becoming an adult, which he was now, despite all the reasons she shouldn’t know—she’d dug it out of somewhere.

It would have taken either effort or skeevy activities or both. It would not have been something that happened by chance or accident.

Bruce let out a sigh, clearing his temples of the anger there. Janet had freely ignored Tim for years at a time, only to crop up like this at times. Hell, they had a restraining order, but Bruce wasn’t sure if it had been properly renewed, now that he thought about it.

Getting Tim ready for college had been a small upheaval.

“Okay. Okay, here’s what we’ll do: we’ll ignore her,” Bruce said. Tim started to protest, saying,

“Dad, you know she won’t stop—“

“I know, Tim, I know. But, we’re not going near the parking lot next to the Biochem building. We’re not going to acknowledge that she sent the email, and we’re going to ignore her if she shows up. If she harasses you, we will call the police.”

Tim’s shoulders slumped. “She knows where I’m going to college, though. She knows where I’ll be taking my classes—oh my god, what if she knows where Dick lives too?”

Since he was staying with Dick instead of on campus, this was a valid concern.

“We’ll talk to the college, and let them know she is not allowed to have any information about you. By law, they’re not supposed to tell her anything anway, but we’ll make doubly sure.” Bruce could feel the general anxiety coming off of Tim in waves. He dealt much better with crazed criminals than with his mother.

It made sense, though. His mother had been a personal demon for many years, and he still hadn’t been able to leave that behind completely.

“What if she, I don’t know, makes them think I’m crazy?” 

“She won’t. We’ll alert them that she’s to be escorted off the premises, and I’ll make sure we still have a restraining order.”

Tim didn’t look sure.

“Come on, it will be okay. I’ll be with you, and so will Dick. She can’t hurt you again.”

Tim shrugged. “Well…we’ll see. I hope that’s the case.”

Bruce hugged him, promising, “I won’t let anything terrible happen. You have my word.”

Tim still looked a touch unsure, but he hugged back. Bruce knew he would do whatever he could to make Tim’s start at college feel safe, but it also felt like there was only so much he could do, and that was frustrating.

Still, he was confident he could do it. He had to be.

His son deserved nothing less, and needed nothing less right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. My mom decided she did in fact need to know where I live now.
> 
> And being creeptastic like she is, she acquired my address against my expressed wishes and sent me a fucking birthday card gushing about how much she (and dad) loved me.
> 
> So, I had a panic attack and then extreme anxiety for a while there. And this is after her happily risking my Grandma's health/life in the ER by egging on her way too high heartbeat, and after her making my birthday celebration and my baby bro's bday celebration as shitty as possible. And her trying to stalk me through the cell phone I got my baby bro.
> 
> It's been a crazy two weeks. I am so lucky I have my bf to tell me I'm not crazy for feeling like I do about it.
> 
> *headdesk*


	103. The (Unadvertised) College Experience (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is confronted by Janet, and things don't go like she'd planned.

The college campus was bustling, young folks of every stripe in any direction you looked. Some had what was probably their Sunday best, looking as put together and polished up as possible. Others had Gotham U T-shirts or even pants, the free shirts having been sent out to many students in the look and see.

Others were from other countries or backgrounds, and still others would be best described as trying to look ‘street smart’ despite being clearly from the suburbs far out from the inner parts of Gotham. And that wasn’t counting those dressed in ways that made Bruce think they just might be trying to piss off their parents—or find themselves, depending on how you looked at it.

Tim was walking beside him, and Bruce was slightly relieved about that. Tim of a few years back would have kept a step or two behind, expecting to follow.

However, right now, Tim knew he had a right to be here and to find his own way. And he wasn’t about to let the prospect of Janet showing up any moment wash away all his confidence and calm.

And Jason had made some demand to be there, and insisted he’d knock some sense into ‘that creepyass bitch’ and all, but fortunately, only Dick had come along. He very clearly was enjoying the atmosphere, saying, “So, you are going to get in clubs and things, right? I feel like you’d make a great cheerleader—“

“Dick, I think you want to be a cheerleader,” Tim said back, smiling a little. 

“No, wait, hear me out—you’ve got all the strength and stamina and flexibility, but no one’d find it suspicious or anything. And then you’d have a better opportunity to make friends and do exercise together and all. Seriously, think about it.”

Tim seemed about to concede the point, smiling a little sheepishly, when he froze.

His eyes locked somewhere near a table with t-shirts for a mathematics major club, and then quickly looked away, clearly working to keep his pace casual and his posture loose.

Bruce was able to pick out Janet too. She was starting to gray around the edges of her hair, and her eyes were more wrinkled than the last time that Bruce had seen her.

He was probably more aged looking than last she’d seen him too.

He put a hand on Tim’s back, keeping him grounded, and continued to talk. “So, have you thought about their offer for a double major?”

There were certain programs Gotham U pushed for double majors because so many courses overlapped. They also had fast tracks, summer courses, certificates and so on. There was a world of choices, but not all of them were good or would help Tim.

“Well, I was thinking about how likely it would be to help at all with, uh, how versatile that’d make me, I guess--” Tim said, looking to Dick.

“Tim, breathe,” Dick said softly, smiling a little at him. “And you know, whichever you decide, you’ve got time to change it.”

Then Dick’s grin turned slightly mischievous. “Or you can be my personal dishwasher for the rest of your life, if that doesn’t work out!”

That made Tim huff a small laugh, rolling his eyes. “Please, I could do better than dishwasher. You’d want to upgrade me to at least housekeeper.”

“Ambition will get you everywhere, Timothy,” Dick said, shaking his head.

“Oh, Timmy!”

Bruce was impressed with Tim’s ability to not flinch. Janet had moved too fast towards them to avoid her, and besides, they weren’t hiding.

They shouldn’t have to.

She was smiling wide, like a cheshire cat. “Timmy, you didn’t meet me in the parking lot! Tsk, tsk!”

It was still shocking every time, the way Janet acted. Bruce couldn’t imagine being that delusional. Dick obviously couldn’t either, and from the way he tensed, he looked like he wanted to wrap an arm around Tim, not unlike that night all those years ago when Tim’s parents tried to kidnap him.

He didn’t, though.

“That’s probably because I didn’t want to see you,” Tim said rather nonchalantly, and Bruce could have laughed at the look on Janet’s face. The almost jaw drop, the widened eyes, but a quick reversion to her smile.

“Don’t be silly, Timmy, how will you get your old school records?”

“Already covered,” Tim replied.

“And, what about your dorm furniture? I got you some--”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, and I don’t need your help,” Tim replied, “I have everything handled. There’s nothing I need from you.”

This made Janet falter. She seemed to notice the crowd, and then, her face pinched dramatically, as she said, “Timmy, why are you being so cruel? After all I’ve done—I’m your _mother_ , how can you treat me like-like a piece of _shit?_ ”

That was turning heads.

Tim seemed to swallow hard, feeling judgmental eyes on him. It made Bruce bristle at Janet playing the ‘Mother’ card, like giving birth to Tim entitled her to him as a possession no matter her actions. He could feel Tim press back against his hand slightly, like he wanted to shrink.

Bruce kept a solid arm on Tim, though, saying, “Mrs. Drake, you’re violating the restraining order.”

A dramatic confrontation was not what they needed or wanted. Screaming Janet’s sins at her, or laying out how awful she had been and how that related to her current treatment, was not going to convince her. It would, however, upset Tim, and that wasn’t what Bruce thought Tim would prefer for his first week.

“He’s my son, you child stealer!” Janet snapped, tears of righteous fury rising in her eyes. Very theatrical. “Just because you can trick them into giving him to you doesn’t make him not my only son!”

“I am not a child,” Tim said, “And they were not tricked.” He seemed aware that if he was trying to win public sympathy, he wasn’t going to succeed—but then, they weren’t trying to put on a show, they were trying to get Janet to understand she should leave.

“Timmy--”

“If you don’t leave, and stop harassing me, I will call the police,” Tim said flatly.

And this bit got through to Janet—the prospect of real consequences.

Her face smoothed out, and she said, sweetly, “Well, I’ll catch up with you later, Timmy, okay, sweetie?” Her eyes glanced about nervously, trying to say something like, ‘Kids, right?’

Tim said nothing.

“Don’t be so dramatic! I love you, see you soon!” And off Janet went, still pretending things were extremely normal.

As soon as she was out of sight, Tim’s shoulders slumped. Dick pulled him in for a hug, murmuring, “You did good, Tim, you did. It’s not your fault she’s batshit.”

“I know,” Tim murmured back.

For much of the rest of the day, Tim’s excitement was somewhat muted.

However, he did brighten a lot when shown the photography club’s room—and its old style dark room, its couple of computers and high quality printers, and the way the tour guide explained that a famous photographer had come out of Gotham U and donated this stuff. ‘Half art, half journalism, half fun’ was apparently the motto of the group.

And the idea that he would get to have access to this much stuff around what he loved made Tim smile genuinely for the first time since the Janet encounter.

It was at that point Bruce could relax and know Tim would be okay here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is not unlike a lot of my confrontations with my mum go down. She wants drama, tears and anger and fear, and if you don't give it to her, it usually works out.
> 
> She might try something else next time, but she expects to be taken very seriously by me, since she literally controlled my life and could, on a whim, do things like have my medicine raised or take away access to any number of things I needed, like the car or internet while I was in college, for instance.
> 
> And when she's not taken seriously, it kinda baffles her and destroys her plan for drama.
> 
> As it is, I'm dealing better with the stalking thing, cause if she shows up at my house, she will find out she's not getting a warm welcome. And my boyfriend will back me up on that, so, it is something I can handle, I think.
> 
> *sighs* October kinda sucked, but had its high points.


	104. The Burden of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian has a meltdown when Tim is purposely hurtful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has some heavy bits
> 
> WARNING for ableism and attempted murder of a child (as a mention).

Damian didn’t always make the connection between other autistic kids and him. He sometimes made the claim he was ‘high functioning’ and therefore better than the others, but Bruce would gently point out that functioning labels were not indicative of value or anything like that.

Some days, he was pretty sure they were simple bullshit.

And then there were days like these he wished the label of autism didn’t exist at all. That somehow it wouldn’t set people apart, and maybe that was a ridiculous thought, and it wouldn’t work, ever, but he still hated so many things about what autism meant to people.

Damian had had a meltdown, seemingly unprompted. Of course, it was never out of nothing, as no one did anything for no reason at all.

Bruce could see Tim sitting on the couch, utterly stiff and pale, chewing at his lip as he tapped away with his vision locked on his screen.

And Damian was clearly ashamed, face buried in Titus and arms wrapped around the dog’s neck. He wouldn’t look up at Bruce, and Titus snuffled at his shoulder comfortingly.

“What happened?” Bruce asked, having been there only for the tail end. Damian hadn’t even had a meltdown that recently; it was a bit unusual at this point, and the way Tim was acting suggested he knew, and knew all too well.

Damian refused to speak.

Tim swallowed, and seemed to start to speak, eyes darting towards Bruce’s face, and then back towards the floor. Shame.

“Father,” Damian managed, voice trembling a little, “Am I really a burden?”

Bruce felt some anger rise in his chest at the very thought, and sank down to Damian’s level, promising, “No, you aren’t. I love you, and I want you to be happy.”

Damian hiccupped. His voice was raw, scratchy, and his neck was still a heated red.

Tim spoke up then, voice unsure and his posture very meek. “I, um…I’m really sorry, because…because I shouldn’t have said that you were, uh, so—so—“ As Bruce looked at him, his head ducked down. “I just said he was really difficult.” Then he admitted, “I said ridiculously difficult. And, I, uh, I said it was a wonder we, we put up with it.”

And yes, Bruce was angry. He was angry Tim would say that, that he’d hurt Damian that way. He knew there was a lot of tension between them, but that was not an all right thing to say. What he responded with was, “Tim, why would you say that?”

Tim shuffled uncomfortably. “I…I was angry, and that’s, I know it’s not okay, but I was mad because he kept trying to get me to give him the laptop cause his tablet ran out of battery, and…” His head ducked in shame. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Damian had a small tablet, fairly inexpensive. It was mostly for reading and music, both of which he loved. He’d saved for it by hiking all the way to the suburbs and mowing lawns for people there. Cass had gone with him.

Sometimes, he used the internet app on it, but as far as Bruce knew, that was mainly for the purpose of checking the weather and the news—and sometimes researching things he was interested in.

If it was dead in the middle of something, it made sense he’d put pressure on Tim to give up to laptop.

Bruce took a breath a moment, cooling the anger as best as he could. “Tim, you understand why that’s wrong, don’t you?”

Tim looked down at the laptop again; the lack of glow suggested the screen had gone to sleep. “…yeah.” His voice was very quiet.

“You still said it!” Damian accused in a watery voice. “You want me dead too!”

Tim’s eyes were wide with alarm. “What?!”

Bruce was immediately looking at Damian, asking, “What do you mean, dead too? Damian, did someone attack you?”

Damian’s lip trembled, looking up at Bruce. “No. But I wish all the people were animals, because then they wouldn’t be so terrible.”

He still wasn’t looking directly at Bruce, which wasn’t extremely unusual at times, but this time it seemed more intentional. 

Bruce sank into a cross-legged position next to Damian, asking, “Can you explain to me why you wanted the laptop so badly?”

His tone was gentle, but still Damian cringed into Titus’s neck.

“Just…just a recent crime. That’s all. It…it has nothing to do with us.”

Bruce was trying to think of any recent events he’d heard of that would matter this much to Damian. He thought he’d heard of some event in Metropolis where people were graffitiing the Superman symbol in more and more hard to reach places, and of other minor things, but nothing that seemed that important.

Tim, however, was already looking up recent crimes. When he did find what must be it, he paled. “…I’m sorry, Damian, I’m really sorry—“

“You’re only sorry because you pity me and you got caught being bad!” Damian snapped back.

Bruce gently took the laptop from Tim, after making sure he was okay with it. And the news article had him seeing red.

‘Mother of Disabled Daughter Drives Off Bridge with Daughter in Car’

The title wasn’t instantly indicative of what that meant, but the article informed him that the mother had been ‘pushed to breaking point’ by ‘lack of support’ and had therefore buckled her daughter into their car and driven off a bridge into a river.

They both survived. It wasn’t a big river, and the mother claimed that remembering her other child helped her survive. The article went to mention how tough it was to care for a low functioning autistic child like the daughter who the mother had fully intended to drown, and how more support would definitely stop things like this from happening again.

It mentioned, almost in footnote, that the mother was being charged and would appear in court.

He almost didn’t dare scroll down to the comments, but he figured Damian had, in some place, and the comments there made him shut the laptop.

“Damian. Are you listening?” he asked this gently, not in a commanding tone.

Damian nodded.

“You are not a burden, and you never will be. You never _could_ be, because loving someone isn’t about what work you do to take care of them. I work pretty hard to make money to pay for the house and the food, and so on, right?”

Damian nodded.

“So, because I work so hard to pay for Tim, and for Cass, and for Bette, and even for Dick and Roy, and so on, by that logic, they’d be a burden too, wouldn’t they?”

Damian looked at him, then at Tim. Then back at Bruce again in order to say, “Perhaps all children are burdens and I’m a greater one.”

Bruce sighed, and tried again. “Damian, I couldn’t even measure what all of you give me back. It’s not a trade and it’s not a...a company or something. I love you all, and caring for you is what I want to do, the most important thing I’ve done with my life. And anyone who can look at their own child and call them a burden doesn’t understand what it means to be a parent or to love.”

He wasn’t sure if he was making any sense. If it was just a mash of words that couldn’t describe how he felt: the pain about Damian hurting, the anger at anyone ever considering his kids or any kids a burden, the way he wanted to hold Damian and soothe away the hurts, the frustration he felt at being unable to help Damian see.

Tim was hesitantly coming over, and, glancing at Bruce, came down to their level. “I…I really am sorry. Not just that I got caught, either. I didn’t…I did mean to hurt you. It was wrong, and I apologize.”

Damian looked at Tim, his eyes still red-rimmed and his arms still wrapped around Titus’s neck. “You can go sit on a pike, _Drake_.”

Tim flinched at that, but backed off.

Bruce sighed, but could see Damian definitely still needed time—and Tim had definitely been hurtful, on purpose, and it wasn’t Damian’s obligation to forgive him for it.

“Damian, I’m going to send Cass down here, but, if you’d like, the rest of us can give you some private time. Is that all right?”

Damian nodded, and he looked exhausted, burying his face back into Titus’s neck.

Bruce had chosen Cass because she understood Damian best, and Damian consistently felt safe with her—safe enough, for instance, to relax and possibly nap without fear of being harmed while asleep.

Then, he and Tim left the room, Bruce letting Cass know.

At this point, he figured Tim was very aware what he’d done was wrong, especially with the way he was rather dejectedly settled in a corner of his room. He looked over to Tim, but before he could say anything, Tim said something first.

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, I know, that was—it was really awful.”

“I’m glad you know that, and I’m not mad at you—but you do need to make it up to your brother. And try to be kinder in the future. The world doesn’t treat kids like Damian kindly—he doesn’t need that from his family too,” Bruce said solemnly.

Tim nodded, head sinking a bit lower.

Bruce sighed. “I know it can be hard to deal with how much more stubborn and abrupt and demanding Damian is—you’re very different in personality. And I know Damian has been unkind to you in the past. He’s trying very hard to overcome his past, to deprogram—like you did, and still are, to some extent. You’re more alike than you are different.”

Tim seemed to digest this. His urgent remorsefulness had turned into something slower, something more thoughtful. 

Then he turned away and got on his laptop.

Bruce left him be.

It took a while to work past that one, but eventually Tim and Damian did reconcile. And Bruce had hope for his sons, even if he couldn’t say the same about the rest of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have pretty strong feelings about attempted murder of disabled kids and the media response. If the mother is at least middle class and white, or passing for white, an alarming amount will go on about the 'burden' and 'lack of support' and such which clearly forced her (or a father, if he's white and upper middle class) to attempt to kill their own child.
> 
> I have literally zero sympathy for anyone who attempts to murder a child like this.
> 
> And people making comments like these, or hell, going into other things about autistic folks, have definitely harmed my sis and many others.
> 
> It's an inherent ableism, in my opinion, to believe that caring for disabled kids is just so much harder that the parents should be given almost carte blanche in their actions.
> 
> I dunno, man. What really sticks with me is the story of a pair of parents who had a test done on their baby for a disorder--something developmental, which wouldn't be physically visible--and before the results came in, because they were so sure, they killed her with cough syrup.
> 
> And then the results came in that she didn't have the disorder.
> 
> The tragedy, according to the media, was that she didn't even have the disorder, as if her having it would have made it more acceptable. The murder was described in soft terms, saying that they bundled her up in her car seat, gave her the cough syrup, and drove gently through the town so she could go peacefully.
> 
> Like.
> 
> Fuck, man.
> 
> So, I have feelings, and I hope this isn't too much just after the election. I know some folks are panicking a lot about it.


	105. Polimoralianity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette has some choice words for a door to door missionary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is a bit touchy of a chapter, probably, but I've tried to represent fairly.

"Go sit on a fucking flaming piece of shit, you asshole!"

Bette's shout was enough to wake Bruce up.

It wasn't actually that frequent more than one of his children was up before him, and it was apparent there was more than one if Bette was shouting. She was not one to shout at no one, after all.

He sighed, and put the chair in an upright position, heading to the back.

"Bette, what are you--"

"And go take a piss on Satan on your way out the door, you--"

"Dad!" Tim's face was comical, like a kid caught doing something at least borderline wrong, as he held the screen door to the back open for Bette. Said sister was leaning out the door and shouting.

Bruce's first instinct was to drag them both inside and apologize to the neighbors, who he actually liked, okay? But instead, he said, "Bette, please come inside."

Bette huffed, took the screen door from Tim, and slammed it. Bruce only caught the slightest shape of human before they fled.

"Who was that? What happened?" Suddenly, his alertness was much higher. What if it was someone terrible? What if it had been someone related to Ra's, or one of their parents, or--

"A fucking asswipe with pamphlets!" Bette replied vehemently, like pamphlets were on par with torturing dogs in front of her.

Tim said nothing, looking away at the cabinets to avoid looking at Bruce.

So. It was likely an issue they weren't divided on.

"What were the pamphlets about, Bette?" Bruce asked, feeling a headache coming on already. He loved the fact that Bette was so tenacious and outspoken, but it wasn't always as easy to live with as Tim's quietness or Cass's calm.

"Fucking asshole dickwipe thought that--"

"Bette."

Bette let out an exaggerated groan. "Fine. He was handing out pamphlets about like, bringing back caning in school, and was trying to argue with Tim that like, kids just aren't disciplined enough or whatever, kay? And then, then this dickwad tries to claim that the fact Timbo's _clearly_ an atheist is what's destroying Christianity in this country and like, he's so fucking lucky that I didn't kick his ass to next Christmas."

Tim pointed out, "It really didn't help his case when he claimed that you were probably a pagan."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "So, I take it he had a host of issues?"

Tim handed him a pamphlet entitled, 'Top Ten Threats to Christianity, Part Seven: Spare the Rod.'

"Ah," Bruce said, not too surprised at this point. He knew they had some fundamentalists in the area, and that they occasionally got very zealous about going door to door to save souls. Or call them sinners, whichever.

"Why'd he come to the back door?" he finally asked, after perusing the pamphlet.

"Well, I put a sign that said to go to the back since you're like fucking sleeping and god knows you don't sleep enough," Bette pointed out, and added, "Also, it's probably too late to fix the bags under your eyes, but don't worry, sleep'll still do you some good anyway."

Bruce nodded. "Okay. Can I ask you to maybe not scream obscenities at people if you can help it, though? I know you feel strongly, but--"

"Dude, anyone talking about Tim needing a caning or some shit is gonna get screamed at, kay?" Bette replied, "Besides, he's just a dumb bigot."

Bruce sighed. "Bette, I know what he said was wrong, but, screaming at him might have been a bit much. Was he actively threatening Tim?"

Tim shook his head. "No. He was sort of old and pudgy and out of breath already."

Bette flushed a little bit red. "But he was _wrong!_ About really important shit! It's not like thinking snow is the best way to get water, it's actually _bad!_ "

"And did you change his mind?"

Bette huffed. "His mind's too full of bullshit to change."

"That...might be," Bruce allowed, "but if there was a chance, I don't think screaming at him helped."

Bette glared. "I'm sorry you don't care about Tim as much as I do."

Tim looked alarmed, saying, "What?! It's not a contest!"

Bruce took a moment to collect his thoughts. It was _good_ that Bette was more than willing to challenge him, he reminded himself. As frustrating as it was, it was good. And the reason she felt it necessary was good.

"Bette, it's not about who cares about Tim more. I understand you didn't like that man, and that there are probably some good reasons, but handing out pamphlets and arguing with Tim is not necessarily evil."

Bette frowned at him still. "You know, whatever. If you can't see how fucking awful that guy is, then like, maybe you're totally okay with caning kids or some shit. He was _wrong._ And he's probably beating his kids with a Bible right now, but as long as you're okay with that, right?"

And she almost violently pulled a muffin tin out of the cupboard, stating vehemently, "I'm making carrot and raisin muffins."

Bruce sighed, and let her be.

He probably could have handled it better, honestly, he reflected, and he'd talk to Bette later when she'd cooled down and he'd been able to consider the situation.

Frankly, when he'd cooled down too, if he was being honest. His first instinct had been to be mad she was shouting this early in the morning, and his second had been fear that something was truly wrong. 

He found her later by her cooling muffins, and she looked over him begrudgingly. "I guess I didn't have to shout that loud. Timbo had it in hand, probably."

"And I didn't need to act like you were being hysterical. I'm sorry," Bruce replied. "I realize these things are very important to you, and I appreciate that you care about Tim and about others."

Bette seemed shocked, but she nodded. "Yeah. I'm, like, sorry too, but I still would have called him an asshole. Just maybe not so loud. Sorry about waking you up."

"That's okay," Bruce said, nodding back. "Thanks for putting up the sign to tell people to come to the back door. It was thoughtful."

Bette nodded again, and then said, "Well...someone's got to like, make sure you don't die at like only fifty. Speaking of, I made muffins that're like, at least a little bit healthy, so...?"

Bruce took one, and took a bite.

They were very good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came to mind because Bette's family is technically in the far Left side of things politically, and I was recently hearing a lot about door to door missionaries and shit.
> 
> Cause I grew up in an extremely conservative household, so I know all the buzzwords and the sorts of things that would be on the agenda, and it always confused me when we did things a little more like this and people reacted negatively. I couldn't understand it. We used to go door to door and ask people to come to church, which is more tame than what this guy was doing. 
> 
> Now, however, I understand a little better, especially given that going to church sometimes gives me panic attacks, since a lot of my abuse was religion-enmeshed.
> 
> From Bette's point of view, these people are objectively the scum of the earth, while Bruce hasn't had quite the same upbringing or experience, and as such, reacts a lot more neutrally. And treats Bette a bit like she's seriously overreacting, which is what he's referring to when he apologizes. 
> 
> And yes, straight up, some fundamentalist Christians are just fucking awful. But so are people of all stripes, and screaming at them solidifies their viewpoint (I know negative encounters like that confirmed that non Christians were awful godless heathens for me as a child). I don't know. I feel like being kind is generally one of the best ways to deal with people, but I also understand snapping or being rude when people are being awful (been there, done that).
> 
> I dunno. I hope this makes sense.


	106. Orphan Number Ten (of sorts): Helena Wayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce meets Helena for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this makes sense! I've been trying to write a happy chapter for y'all, cause I figure we need it, and this's been in the works for a while. :D

Helena Wayne was one of the most pleasant surprises of Bruce’s life.

Selina always had a flair for the dramatic, but suddenly dumping a toddler in his lap and declaring, “Say hi to Daddy!” was not her typical MO.

Nor was the nervous look to her eyes, like she wasn’t sure Bruce would be _happy._

Bruce looked up at her in shock.

_”...Daddy?”_

Selina smiled, still nervous, saying, “Her...her name’s Helena. If that’s okay. It’s likely still early enough to change it, in all honesty.”

She was trying hard to be nonchalant.

Bruce looked down at Helena. She had her top two teeth, and she was baring them at him in an infectious grin. She seemed entirely unaware of any reasons to be apprehensive, and gurgled at him happily while poking a finger up his nose.

Babies liked noses, Bruce remembered absently.

“I have... _we_ have a daughter?” Bruce asked, still feeling a bit stunned.

Selina nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was abroad when I realized I was pregnant, and...” Her face turned down a little. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure I wanted to...well, I didn’t want to be tied down, I guess.”

Bruce nodded, stroking back Helena’s hair. 

“But, I remembered what you went through with Damian’s mother, and while I had no intention of a similar upbringing for Helena...it wasn’t fair to you. Or even her, actually, for me to stay away.” Her blue eyes met his, somewhat vulnerable.

And Bruce was still astounded at the thought he had a tiny, toddler daughter. He’d never had a child this small. But she had the blue eyes that looked so much like his, and her dark hair might’ve been able to have been inherited from either of them, but she looked vaguely like Damian. Very vaguely, in that familial resemblance way.

“Are...are you okay with this?” Selina finally asked.

And Bruce was almost astounded she’d asked that. “Okay? I’m more than okay—I, I have a--” Bruce found himself at a loss to describe the feeling of a small child sitting in his lap and grinning up at him. She was currently picking at his buttons.

“Yeah, we have a daughter,” Selina said softly. 

Bruce carefully picked Helena up, finding that his hands fit her all the way around her waist easily. She was absolutely delighted at being lifted, kicking her feet out and burbling at him.

She was so _small_ that Bruce could barely believe it. Of course, Ava had been small too, but she was bigger now, and Helena was so...unexpected.

And she was so squishy and happy and Bruce thought he might be tearing up as she giggled at him.

“How old is she?”

“Not quite a year,” Selina responded, “It’ll be her birthday in two weeks.”

He looked over at Selina, and he knew that for some people, this long a gap before knowing they had a child might seem unforgiveable. Some people might balk at the idea of not knowing for so long and just being happy about having a child.

But Bruce had been dealt far worse hands, and he knew Selina was exactly the type to want to hide or not tell him. He knew she feared being tied down, and he knew that it probably took some courage to come back here and risk having this near permanent tie to him.

And he also knew that she was trying to do what was best for him _and_ their daughter, and for that, he didn’t see how he could be angry.

“Thank you,” he said, voice soft. “Thank you for coming back.”

And all the tension melted out of Selina’s posture, and she responded, “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Helena reached for Bruce’s face, grabbing at his cheeks and seeming in awe of the faint stubble. And Bruce could honestly say he held no grudge against Selina at this point.

“Come on,” he finally managed, “Let’s get some breakfast. I’m sure Helena’s hungry.”

And he stood, so carefully cradling Helena in his arms, and Selina followed him. Bruce was sort of glad his kids were currently either not up, or away, because he was certain it would be an explosion of excitement once they found out about Helena.

And he’d like some quiet time to get to know her first.

Selina and him chatted over pancakes, discussing how the care of Helena was to go, and how things were for both of them.

Selina felt that she still had work to do, that it wasn’t safe work for a small child. That she loved Helena, but felt that maybe she should stay here, in a more permanent place.

Bruce had been alarmed, but Selina had been quick to assure him she wasn’t going to drop out of her daughter’s life. She would be back. She just would be gone for short periods or so, doing her ‘night job.’

He knew it was futile to argue otherwise, but, honestly, it was a far better situation than with Talia.

Selina kissed his cheek, and left.

And Bruce was left with Helena, who suddenly realized that her mother was gone. Her face turned red, and crumpled up, and suddenly, a high pitched wail rent the air.

“No, no, sh, Dad’s here,” Bruce tried, attempting to soothe her. He tried to remember what he’d learned from Steph and Ava, but it was not easy. He balanced her on his knee, and started gently bouncing her, saying, “Sh, no, it’s okay, I promise...”

“Mama,” Helena complained loudly, “Mama…”

“She’ll be back,” Bruce promised, picking up the pace on the bouncing, “She’ll come back, but right now, I’m with you.”

Helena sobbed at him, and suddenly launched into an angry telling off of Bruce, every last word completely unintelligible, but the tone very clear.

“I apologize,” Bruce murmured back, “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

She was still crying a little bit, a couple tears falling down red cheeks, but she was clearly calming down. Bruce got her a pancake as a peace offering, and at first she seemed to try to ignore it, but then, she took it and dug in.

And that was about when about half his brood made it home and said explosion happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally have been told off by toddlers. I shut the door once so one wouldn't get out, and man, she told me. Even had her little finger pointing at me. When I apologized, she seemed to settle down, though.
> 
> I love babies, but I haven't gotten to see one for a while, so if this is off, I apologize!
> 
> As for Selina, I would believe she's wary of attachment, but not immune, and also cares about Bruce. Since many of Bruce's experiences with his kids and people he's loved have been waaaay more negative, I feel like he wouldn't react angrily in this case, and would kind of understand what it took for Selina to return.
> 
> And she's definitely not abandoning Helena. Selina will be showing back up periodically. (She's part of the family now! :D)


	107. Treats and No Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass and Tim go trick or treating for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fluff kinda chapter, I guess.

One image that would stick with Bruce literally forever was Halloween, not long after Cass arrived.

It was her and Tim, and Dick had, fortunately or unfortunately, discovered that Tim had never trick or treated, and that Cass _also_ had never trick or treated.

He felt both of them had been robbed, and despite Tim clearly being flustered at the idea and Cass just kind of quietly confused, he set about getting them ready.

“Okay, Cass, what do you want to be?”

“...me?”

“No, Cass, you can be anyone or anything.”

“Bruce.” Cass said this fairly certainly, and then looked to Tim. “Go to bed, Tim.”

Tim was giggling in spite of his clear nerves at that, and Bruce was pretty sure that Cass was messing with Dick now.

Dick had to crack a smile at that. “Okay, but what about something like...a ninja, or a princess, or a--”

“A T Rex!” Cass’s eyes widened. “I want to be that.”

“Uh...yeah, yeah, we can figure that out...” Dick got that thoughtful spark in his eyes, at first surprised, but now in brainstorm mode.

He looked to Tim. “How about you, Timbo?”

Tim flushed. “I...I don’t know. It’d probably be silly.”

Cass was making T Rex arms at him. “It’s okay.”

“Uh...uh, well, I could be, uh...” Tim appeared not to have given it much thought before. Or perhaps too much thought.

“An apple?” Cass offered.

“Or you could be Superman!” Dick grinned, looking at Tim almost knowingly. That made Tim turn a bit redder, and now he wouldn’t look at his siblings.

“Be the one I bite,” Cass told him, patting his arm softly. She seemed to have picked up on how unsure and uncomfortable Tim really was, and had dropped her T Rex arms.

Tim looked over at her. “Like a stegosaurus or something?”

Cass nodded. “Yeah, that one.”

Bruce knew she recognized many of the dinosaurs by image, but not by name. But still, she could tell Tim was talking about a prey dinosaur that would work well because, well, it was Tim. He wouldn’t suggest something he didn’t think would possibly work or fit.

“We could make back plates out of cardboard,” Bruce put in.

Tim nodded slowly.

Bruce realized, as they constructed Cass and Tim’s costumes out of cardboard and paper and thick, green sweats, that Cass was actually equally nervous.

She kept looking off, like she was thinking, and was focusing on getting Tim to enjoy the costume making far too much for it to be only for his sake. Finally, though, they were dressed up as dinosaurs, and Tim was outside with Dick putting paper ghosts on the storm door.

“Cass?” Bruce asked, seeing her just standing there, watching the pair of them. She was quiet for a while, then she turned to look at him.

“I...have never done this,” Cass admitted. “And...it doesn’t...make sense.”

And she started tapping her claws together a bit slowly, adding, “Why?”

“Why do kids dress up and get candy?” Bruce asked. She nodded. “Well...it’s for fun. It lets kids play pretend, be creative, and get candy. It lets people have a break from normal things to have some fun.”

Cass nodded slowly. “I see.”

She was clearly still experiencing trepidation and confusion, and it made Bruce feel fury start to burn in his chest at the man who’d robbed her of a childhood. Who’d made the concept of pretend, or the concept of fun, weirdly foreign to her.

But then she smiled at him, almost seriously. “I will have fun. I promise.”

And she was already hugging him by the time he’d smiled and started to open up his arms, and he said, “You have fun, but even if you don’t, I’m proud of you for trying this.”

She hugged him a little tighter, and then let go. “Okay.”

And it was about then Dick came in to lecture Bruce for having not done Halloween things with Tim before, because ‘this kid makes spiderwebs like no one’s business!’

That trick or treat went well, and the resulting mound of candy was dumped in their large blue plastic bowl, and after the stomachaches of the first night, rationed to three a day max.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been really into Cass lately, now that I've gotten my hands on her comics. Comic books don't usually move me to tears, but hers where she confronts her father did.
> 
> It was so real and raw, and I wanted to hold her.
> 
> Cass is so good, and I love her.


	108. Arrows of a Quiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor comes to see Roy.

The day Connor Hawke showed up on their patrol, specifically seeking out Roy, was a day that shocked Bruce.

He didn’t come to fight. He came to talk.

“Please. I’d like to talk honestly,” he said, posture nonthreatening and tone softer than Bruce would have thought possible coming from a kid of Oliver’s. Perhaps it was his mother.

Roy’s mouth had set in a thin line. Bruce would have thought it fair for him to want to turn it down; after all Oliver had done, and after the many months spent recovering and, honestly, attaching to the Wayne clan, he hadn’t wanted anything more to do with Oliver. He’d sworn him off, in essence. Right along with the drugs.

Bruce wasn’t certain which was more toxic for Roy at times.

But then, Roy gave in. “We can talk,” he agreed.

And Connor nodded, seeming to let out a relieved breath. Bruce wasn’t surprised to see Bette tense at his side as the pair walked off, hissing to him, “We’re gonna eavesdrop, right?”

“No, we’re not,” Bruce responded. “It’s Roy’s business. If he wants to tell us any of it, that’s up to him.”

Roy didn’t go out of his line of sight, he noted. Like he wanted to be certain that this wasn’t a trick, which was fair enough. Connor was seemingly very aware of the fact they were being watched, keeping his posture and gestures exaggeratedly nonthreatening. It was evident how much he wanted to know or believe that he was here on peaceful terms.

They were talking for a while. Roy didn’t seem angry, but Bruce could see his posture tense up more than once, and there were also moments that Roy looked more dejected. It wasn’t too hard to guess at the topic, or the general topic—how Oliver had treated Roy, and the resulting relationship between Connor and Roy.

Or relative lack thereof.

He couldn’t be sure if Connor wanted Roy to come back, or was trying to convince him to meet up with Oliver so he could apologize, or what have you. That was very unclear, and Connor wasn’t broadcasting his intentions in that sense.

He could just about feel Bette smoldering with the want to do _something_ , whether that be hugging Roy or decking Connor or _something_.

Finally, he could see Roy walk away, a tight frown. “You’re wrong. If he cared at all, he’d come here himself.”

It was a flat tone, and one that Connor seemed to accept dejectedly, but accept nonetheless.

“I was hoping some cooperation--”

“I have nothing to apologize for, so that’s all on him,” Roy responded again, tone still a bit flat.

Connor nodded, face saying, _yeah, that’s true_ , but also saying that he’d hoped to jumpstart it. That he’d hoped to sway Roy to get Oliver to _try._ “I am serious about my offer. If you ever need help, you have my number.”

Roy sighed. But then, he replied, “Yeah, I understand.”

Connor’s face was slightly pained, but then, he murmured, “I do consider you a brother, you know.”

Roy didn’t say anything to that, just watching as Connor disappeared into the night. And that was about when Bruce was certain what his mission was.

Connor had been here to try to patch up his family. To try to make everything all right, since he hadn’t been there to stop the bad things from happening to begin with.

And, while Bruce wouldn’t say it gave him a lot of hope for Oliver straightening up his parenting, it did give him some hope for Roy and helping to heal what pain remained about Oliver and his proteges.

Bette seemed to have cooled off, murmuring, “Fuck, Red, you need a hug?”

Roy seemed almost about to deny it, but then he just nodded, looking very tired. So she did.

And Bruce said, “Do you want to cut patrol short tonight?”

“No,” Roy admitted, “I like doing this. Being here. With all of you.” He seemed almost shy to admit it, and Bruce knew he rarely admitted to wanting to belong in any way. He knew how frightened he was of being pushed out of a group.

So he nodded, and they took off for the next couple of hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm just a touch emotionally exhausted. I've finally persuaded my sis to get an online banking account, visited home for a couple hours while my mother was gone, and talked with my father about life insurance on me that they still have and want me to pay for. And that's not even mentioning hanging out with the older bro, who's actually pretty cool to hang with and we had a good time, but fam's still exhausting.
> 
> And now my mother's messaging me on more than one platform about when I should come for supper to celebrate Christmas. 
> 
> Being at home for just a couple hours was like being in an intrigue. Careful words, actions, thoughts, all the things. And they kept telling me to be quiet, which was jarring, cause that's not a thing the BF does like at all. And I am not a silent person, I'm always humming or something, so that was...not fun. It felt like a small aggression. It usually does.
> 
> As for this chapter, I guess Roy kind of characterizes my exhaustion with my family well? And Connor has come late to the party, so to speak, and is trying to salvage a relationship he never got to have. Hope that isn't crazy off base, as I've got like two comics' worth of reading him as a character. :P
> 
> Hope this makes sense like at all.


	109. Not Enough Room in the Nest (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian tries to get rid of Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for general violence/abuse kind of things? Nothing extreme, though.

The day Damian attempted to get rid of Tim was a dark one in their history.

Or rather, his campaign over a couple of days. He was better at strategy than just trying it in one day, and he spent the day before that doing his best to make Tim feel unwelcome and unsafe in his own home.

Bruce didn’t hear a word of it until Cass pulled him aside, concern written across her features.

“These,” she said, holding up what could only be described as bladed balls, “In Tim’s bed.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rose. “Who put them there?”

“Didn’t see, but...I have a good guess,” Cass responded slowly, and, god forgive him, his first thought was to wonder why Jason would suddenly hold a grudge again against Tim, when Cass’s eyes slid towards the living room area, and he could see Damian looking at Dick, sitting stiffly on the couch, but perhaps trying to be slightly friendly.

“When did they get put there?” Bruce asked her.

“Last night.”

“Did Tim sleep on them?”

Cass shook her head, a slightly frustrated look on her face. “He didn’t sleep. Not in bed.”

“Why not?” Tim wasn’t an insomniac at this point. He tended to sleep pretty well, actually.

“We have locks that are hard to pick,” Cass replied, “And especially with cold hands.”

He hadn’t even seen Tim this morning, Bruce realized with a jolt. “Where _is_ Tim?”

Cass pursed her lips a moment, but explained, “I called. He went to Dick’s apartment. Dick doesn’t know. But he did give Tim a spare key.”

Bruce felt a headache coming on. “Are you telling me he hiked across Gotham in the middle of the night in January rather than let us know he’d been locked out?”

Cass nodded. Her face was serious.

Bruce didn’t like where this was going at all. “Why wouldn’t he call us?”

Cass dumped pieces of plastic and wiring and such into his hands. “I called Dick’s landing line.”

And that was definitely Tim’s cell phone, the small sticker of a cartoon character (Stitch, Bruce thought) holding together two of the pieces of plastic.

And yet...Tim could have called them from Dick’s land line. If it was that he didn’t want to be a bother, Bruce wasn’t sure how he was going to get it in Tim’s head that, no, knowing where he was in the middle of the night was not him being a bother. Knowing he’d been locked out in the cold was not being a bother.

And that was when there was a tapping at the back door window.

Bruce looked up to see Tim, his eyes looking very tired and the rest of his face covered with Dick’s thick red scarf.

He was wearing Dick’s extra coat as well.

And his shoes, Bruce found when he opened the door.

And his own pajama pants.

“Tim, I could’ve come to get you,” he said, perhaps sharper than he meant to.

“It’s okay, I just locked myself out by accident, and you were dead asleep--” Tim stopped in his tale spinning, partially for his teeth to chatter and partially because he saw Cass. He seemed to be trying to deduce if she’d ‘told.’

He sniffled loudly, and she came over with a shake of her head to pull the scarf off of him. His cold seemed to have worsened considerably, and he started coughing instead of lying.

Damian’s head had swiveled sharply, seemingly very surprised to even see Tim.

Bruce held in a sigh, and got a hot mug of oatmeal for Tim, seeing as he’d made a large batch in the rice cooker, and drew him aside by the shoulder. 

Cass caught on to the plan fast, and went over to Dick and Damian, suggesting that they go see if Roy was awake. Damian seemed like he would wriggle out of this plan, eyes rather locked on Bruce and Tim, but Dick convinced him to come with him.

He hated to disappoint Dick.

Then, it was Tim and Bruce, and Bruce said, softly, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Tim looked uncertain, putting a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. He wouldn’t look Bruce in the eye. He got through two more spoonfuls before he said something. “I got locked out. Because I was being stupid, okay?”

Bruce bit back a, _and how did you decide to assign yourself the blame in this scenario?_ , and instead asked, “In what way?”

Tim shifted uncomfortably. “Bette asked me to do the bins for her. Since she’s sleeping over at the Foxes’ and all.”

Bette had gone over because she was friends with Steph and Tam, and they were all headed to a local concert that night. Bette had phoned in to let him know she got home safe, and then conked out.

She was a lot bigger on keeping contact than Tim was.

“And...when I went to get the bins, cause I forgot, I was in my pajamas. And I got locked out,” Tim murmured.

“By?”

Tim seemed unnerved by the question. He seemed to desperately want to say ‘Accident’ but he clearly also wanted to not lie. He finally admitted, looking down at his oatmeal, “...Damian.”

But this opened the floodgates, and he said, “He locked the screen door first, and told me that I’d leave if I knew what was good for me. And before that, he smashed my cell phone and dropped a weight on my foot. That was yesterday, but he said it was an accident, except it _wasn’t_ , and anyone could’ve seen that, but you said to--”

“I said to make him feel welcome,” Bruce sighed, remembering that declaration. He was kind of regretting it at this moment. “May I see your foot?”

Tim nodded, and easily kicked off Dick’s boot, which was stuffed with newspapers, and peeled off Dick’s sock. “My slippers were ruined by the time I got there,” he said by way of explanation, voice quiet. 

His foot was black and blue, and slightly swollen. It also had a paleness that Bruce didn’t like at all. The bruise spread painfully across the top of his foot. His foot also felt ice cold when Bruce took it in his hand.

“Why didn’t you call to have us pick you up?”

Tim fidgetted a little at that, and admitted, “I didn’t want you to know. It’s...embarrassing. He’s ten. I should’ve realized, or been better, or...or...”

A full body shiver went through him, and Bruce left the line of questioning for the moment, mind brewing with dark thoughts. He got a fresh set of sweats for Tim, and a thick comforter, got a hot water bottle, and so on, doing his absolute best to warm up his son. He also made every attempt to make him comfortable, seeing as his cold was fairly bad at this point and he looked exhausted.

And Bruce had to calm the dark cloud in his mind before he spoke to Damian. Even as everything in him wanted to yell at him, knowing that he had intentionally endangered Tim’s life in this kind of cold, that he’d tried to make him leave, that—that--

A deep breath. Tim was set up on the couch, nearly hidden in all the warm things and box of tissues near him, eyes already fluttering closed as he probably got some of the best sleep he’d gotten recently.

And Bruce turned towards the stairs, knowing he’d have to face this.

And also knowing he didn’t know what the hell to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured this should be a two parter at least. I suddenly realized I ought to do this part.
> 
> And I guess going home for a bit reminded me of the weird politics that made me use the phrase 'they smell blood' to describe my siblings' attitude when I was sick.
> 
> It's been a rough few days, but not as bad as it could have been. Just emotionally exhausting.
> 
> And in this chap, I figure Damian's general reasoning is that if he gets rid of Tim, he can have all the attention Tim's getting and solidify his place, as one does. And Tim's general reasoning is that he wasn't about to take a ten year old threatening him seriously up until the point where he was trapped outside, and then he didn't want to tell them what had happened because it was embarrassing and would upset things.


	110. Not Enough Room in the Nest (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian is confronted.

Damian looked up sharply when he entered the room.

Dick and Cass were there, Dick nearish to Damian and seeming a bit confused as to the sudden heavy tension. He could tell something was up, but he clearly hadn’t been filled in on what.

“Tim okay?” he asked, and yes, he definitely didn’t know what Damian had done.

Instead of shrinking, though, like Bruce had expected, Damian met his gaze head on, eyes intense and challenging. Like he dared him to say he was wrong.

And that made Bruce come so much closer to the side of him that wanted to yell at Damian. That wanted to demand how the hell he could do that to Tim, that wanted to shake him. 

Then Dick shifted a bit, and Bruce was reminded that this could have been Dick. That had that night so long ago gone differently, Dick could have been the one trained by the assassins. And Damian had it since babyhood, presumably, so it was worse.

And yet, he also knew this was completely unacceptable.

“Damian. We need to talk.”

Dick glanced to Cass, and she gave him an assuring look, that yes, Tim was mostly okay.

Damian’s gaze was still completely unapologetic. “Yes, Father?”

The tone was like a thin blade.

“Do you understand what you did?” Bruce said, feeling his shoulder muscles tense up.

“I am very aware. Do you understand what I did?” Damian sniped back, face disdainful. Almost an exact copy of Talia’s expression.

“You shut _my son_ out in the cold--”

“He’s not your real son, I am!” Damian snapped back, voice hitting a squeak. “It shouldn’t even matter to you if he leaves, it should matter to you that I’m here!”

“Damian...” Dick’s expression was one of horror, and _that_ made Damian flinch a little, slight confusion to the expression. Like he sort of understood how wrong it was, or that it would upset Dick, and he hadn’t wanted that.

“Damian. You could have killed him,” Bruce said, the words hot and heavy in his throat. The acknowledgment that he could have lost another child, for good. Forever.

“If he’s that stupid, then he deserves to die,” Damian returned, voice attempting to be cool and detached like his grandfather’s, but instead coming across hot and full of sparks.

Bruce’s teeth were clenched tight. He didn’t often feel this kind of anger, mostly because it only came from people threatening his children this way—and they didn’t often get the chance to repeat that. Most people were smarter than to threaten children of a large, muscular man, but it still happened.

“Damian, Tim is my son and if you threaten his life like this, you can’t live here.”

The words seemed to shock not only Damian, but Dick as well. Even Cass’s eyes widened slightly.

Damian gaped for a moment, finally saying, voice desperately trying to return to its confidence of before, “That’s not fair, I didn’t do anything wrong, I just—he’s supposed to go! He has the—you can’t make me leave!”

Dick looked utterly astonished, and said, “ _B._ You can’t just kick him out.”

And Bruce was rapidly realizing that, yes, Dick was right, that that was a rash response and now a pit of guilt and despair was opening in his stomach. How the fuck was he supposed to make this work? How could Tim feel safe with Damian around, and how could he help Damian if Damian was willing to do things like this?

How could he trust Damian?

He sank heavily onto the bed, saying, “I...apologize. I’m not going to kick you out, Damian. But I need you to understand that things like what you did to Tim are completely unacceptable.”

Tears started to roll down Damian’s cheeks, and he screamed at Bruce, “You’re wrong! You’re wrong, I did what anyone would expect, you can’t do this, you can’t! You can’t act like this! I did what I was supposed to!”

He was screaming and sobbing all in one, so totally thrown by the way things had turned out.

Bruce was in shock.

Dick tried to hug Damian, but this did nothing, only made the child flail at him, a particularly painful sounding strike to his jaw with Damian’s wristbone. Even Cass seemed alarmed.

She crept forward carefully, and Bruce was suddenly reminded of the tantrum Damian had thrown on first coming here, and wondered if this could somehow be as world-jarring. If he actually expected them to not hate him for trying to get rid of Tim. If this was _normal_ where he came from.

The thought made him shudder.

Cass was the one to take the situation in hand. She moved Bruce and Dick away, both stunned enough to let her, and gave Damian space. She sat quietly near him, assuring, once or twice, that he was okay, he was safe, it was okay. Her tone was very soothing, and seemed to be more important than the words.

He wore himself out much faster than the first time, and his face was flaming red, his eyes red-rimmed with tears, and sheer confusion on his face. He really didn’t understand how this was turning out, even if he knew enough to hide it.

Cass offered him a tissue, and he scrubbed at his face. “Breaths,” she advised.

Damian hiccuped, and seemed ashamed of that. Hell, he seemed ashamed of the general weakness shown. 

Bruce started to move forward, but she shook her head.

It turned out he had to wait an entire fifteen minutes for Damian to cool down, him and Dick downstairs and checking up on Tim.

By this moment, not only was Tim too tired to be alarmed by the previous screaming, he was cuddly. Tim was not often openly cuddly, and this was not what most people would consider a cuddle monster, but he did latch on to Dick the moment Dick came over to hug him. It was like he was trying to steal Dick’s warmth.

“Hey Tim. How are you holding up?” Dick managed not to reflect his fear about Tim, or his feelings on Damian, and Tim blearily pushed closer. 

“’m cold.”

“Well, that’s something fixable, at least,” Dick said, narrowly not keeping the sadness out of his tone. He wedged into the couch, keeping Tim close and able to steal his body heat.

Tim seemed to relax more, somehow, and his eyes shut.

Bruce got the feeling he hadn’t really been able to sleep with the knowledge Damian was in the house and no one was nearby _enough_.

He stayed with his sons, fetching some hot tea and soup throughout, until Cass let them know they could return.

Dick stayed with Tim, given that he’d fallen asleep on him and looked like hell.

Damian looked like he couldn’t get smaller, trying to blend in somehow with the red comforter on his bed. He cleared his throat, and said, amazingly crisp, “Cain has explained that things don’t work the same in this household as in the League. I apologize for my insubordination.”

He wouldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes, and there was still general confusion on his face.

“What did he—what did you think it was supposed to be?” Bruce asked, taking care to keep his voice soft.

“In the League,” Damian said, voice equally soft, “You cannot have a place unless you take someone else’s. It makes sense, because there’s not an infinite amount of resources,” his voice was growing forceful, angry, “and there’s not an infinite amount of _anything_ , it would be ridiculous if there was enough for everyone no matter what, there’d be millions of people in the same spot, it would be so _ridiculous_ because that’s not the way anything works--”

Bruce cut him off, seeing his fury at the way his world and understanding of the world was being upended. “Damian, I...I am sorry, but…Cass is right, our family doesn’t work that way. There’s enough room for everyone, and enough love for everyone.”

Damian’s face grew bright red at that, and he looked sharply down. “Love is not infinite either. _Nothing_ is.”

Bruce huffed out a sigh. He wanted to still be furious, and in some ways, he _was._ He was well and truly mad at the harm done to Tim. But at the same time, Damian was ten. Damian didn’t understand why what he’d done was wrong. 

“There is enough room in this family for you, if you’ll treat us like family,” Bruce replied, “And not like your grandfather or even your mother. In this family, there’s a place for everyone, and you don’t—you don’t need to take it.”

Damian frowned. “If you say so. They prefer Drake to me in every case.”

“That’s not because of Tim, Damian,” Bruce responded, barely refraining from being a touch cruel, “If you do things like this, how can any of us trust you?”

“You trust Drake for no reason--”

“I trust _Tim_ because he’s proven himself time and again. Trust is earned, Damian, not something you can steal from someone else,” Bruce said, perhaps more sharply than he meant to, but the stern tone seemed to get through to Damian.

His head ducked down a little. “I will earn it, then.”

That surprised Bruce a little. He looked down on Damian’s dark mop of hair, and wondered if he’d sounded the same at that age. Earnest, if guarded. “I’m glad to hear that. As it is, you are to stay away from Tim. You are not sharing the same room, and you’re not to stay alone together in the house until you’ve earned that trust. Do you understand?”

Damian frowned a little, but then nodded. “Yes. It’s understood.”

Cass looked relieved. 

It was still a tense week while Tim recovered. And Bruce doubted this was the end of the rivalry. But by the point that Damian was helping Bette with washing silverware, he felt that Damian was making an effort—and he had high hopes for his son, who’d had such heavy disadvantages in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
> 
> I am so sorry to leave y'all hanging for so long. My evil scheme had been to post this Christmas Eve and then have it as a sort of Christmas present--and then I went and got a concussion a day after writing the first part.
> 
> It was not as bad as the other one I got this year, but screens were a no go. I'm still recovering, but yeah.
> 
> (I landed on my face [think forehead and cheekbone) and did a back bend over my head. Good times.)
> 
> As it is, this chapter was also a bit difficult, because I didn't want to absolve Damian of responsibility, but he's also been through a lot of shit. And I didn't want to make his reaction false.
> 
> For Damian, I feel that not only is eliminating your competition a thing, but so is being 'tough' about it. If you apologize or show remorse, you're snivelling and deserve whatever they do to you. You aren't fit to be, say, the Demon's Head, if you show remorse for doing bad things to people to further your goals. And so his initial reaction is more of a show of bravado than anything else, and the resulting confusion is because Bruce reacts entirely wrong for what he's used to. Also, if he expected repercussions, he still didn't expect to be thrown out, and reversing that decision so fast was terrible for him in that sense.
> 
> So, yeah. I hope this chapter makes sense. Also, Holiday Blues have been a thing on my part, but currently, doing Christmas with the BF's family has been _amazing._ Not totally without stress, but it is nice to be here and part of the family. It made me cry a lot.
> 
> And also, now I have Hungry Caterpillar socks, so I am a very happy bean. :)


	111. (Mental) Health Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The homeschool cooperative (or rather, some of its members) has feelings on Jason attending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a bashing of homeschooling, to be clear.

The thing about homeschool co-ops was, they were run by people.

And people were very fallible, and prone to their own biases and prejudices.

Bruce learned this the very hard way. The head teacher of the co-op that he’d enrolled Jason and Dick in approached him one afternoon, nervously going over a sheaf of papers. When she got to him, she did a false smile and said, softly, “Mr. Wayne, can we talk a moment?”

Mrs. Novak was a certified teacher with kids. She worked part-time, in essence, to run the co-op. The parents paid her salary with dues of sorts.

Her softly curled hair seemed to flounce slightly as she led Bruce into a quiet side room in the church basement, adjusting her glasses.

Bruce settled in the metal upholstered chair. “Is there something wrong?”

“Well, it’s something about Jason,” Mrs. Novak said, her words still soft as they came through her thin, pale lips. 

“Did he do something wrong?” Bruce asked, brow crinkling. He knew Jason was still adjusting, in so many ways, but he was a good kid. He liked this co-op a lot better than the schools he’d been in before.

Mrs. Novak took in a breath quietly, let it out in a soft sigh. “Well, unfortunately, we can’t let him attend here. For safety’s sake.”

“’Safety’s sake’? What does that mean?” Bruce demanded.

“We just want everyone to feel safe and comfortable, Jason included,” Mrs. Novak said, and that was most definitely not a direct answer.

“In what way? Jason hasn’t been causing any problems, and he’s worked on not cussing at school,” Bruce said, remembering easily how much trouble that had caused among the more conservative members of the co-op. To be fair, Jason actually preferred not cussing his head off, and had done it at school partly out of habit and partly because someone cut him in line.

Apparently, ‘Hey, dumbass, I’m standing here!’ was not ‘appropriate.’

Among other incidents, but there’d been nothing Bruce had heard about for a solid month.

“Well, we just want everyone to feel safe,” Mrs. Novak reiterated, not clarifying anything. “It’s not that Jason’s not a good student or anything like that, we just...want everyone to feel safe.”

Bruce had a bad feeling about where this was going. “Has someone been complaining about him? Just because he’s a foster kid--”

“No, no, Mr. Wayne, we wouldn’t ever hold that against him, Jason’s a delight,” Mrs. Novak rushed to assure him.

“Then what is your problem with my son?” Bruce demanded, cutting to the chase.

Mrs. Novak blanched slightly, then said, voice still soft, “Some of the parents are concerned about health safety with him around.”

Bruce had to sit back. Hard. Had to take a moment, and then he started, voice heavier than he expected, “If you think _my son_ is dirty--”

“Oh, I don’t, of course not, Mr. Wayne,” Mrs. Novak rushed to assure him, “But, well, you have to understand how the other parents are feeling as well. A disease like Jason’s is dangerous, and--”

“And entirely managed and none of their damn business!” Bruce didn’t often interrupt people like Mrs. Novak if he could help it.

She seemed shocked, mouth working a moment. “Mr. Wayne, there’s no need to raise your voice. We’d like to end Jason’s attendance amicably.”

“You threw that out the window when you chose to discriminate against him for having a disease he can’t help. If you think Jason will think this is ‘amicable,’ then you’re as blindly delusional as you are spineless,” Bruce snapped, and he was _angry_ , not just at people being bigoted.

No, he was also angry that Mrs. Novak could sit there and act as though this was something she couldn’t help. That she didn’t agree with, but oh well, what can you do?

As if she’d expected him to understand.

“We’ll be glad to refund this month’s fee,” she said very quietly.

Bruce stood, and responded, through gritted teeth, “See you do.”

He went to go get Jason. He didn’t know how his son would respond, but it made him furious to think he’d have to pull him out.

Jason was sitting in class when he got there, and he looked so...so damn happy. He was busily sketching the shape of a cube, and had already finished a few such shapes—the teacher in this class believed in early introduction of geometry, and they were little angle marks and similar things.

And Bruce had to wait. He had had the thought of marching in there and self righteously yanking Jason out of class, but...he realized that was more for him than it was for Jason.

So he let him enjoy the rest of the class, and then quietly pulled him aside afterward.

He couldn’t have apologized enough for what happened, but then again, there were no apologies that could take away the look in Jason’s eyes, or the way that he curled up in the car on the way back, hiding his upset and bewilderment at what he’d done wrong.

Dick was, predictably, seething.

“We should go kick in their windows or something!”

“No, Dick.”

“B, come on, they can’t just do that to Jay! That’s not okay, and you can’t be okay with it--”

“I’m _not_ okay with it. But I think it’s not going to help your brother to enact vengeance on the church that hosts the school.”

Jason hiccuped at that, the sound undeniably like a sob. He didn’t take well to being rejected, Bruce knew, and that just made the angry knot in his chest tighten. Not at Jason, obviously, at the people who insisted he be kicked out.

They pulled up to the house. Bruce stopped Jason before he went in—his son’s shoulders were drooping, and he scrubbed at his face. 

“Jay? I need you to understand that it’s their loss, not yours.”

“Yeah? Someone should tell them they’re missing out on the diseased child experience, then,” Jason responded, unwillingly hiccuping. “Or my amazing reading skills, or--”

“Jason,” Bruce said firmly, trying to look Jason in the eyes. He caught so much insecurity in the blue-green before Jason looked away silently. “They _are_ missing out. Not only are you an amazing kid and very intelligent, their close-mindedness will only do them a disservice in the long run. I—We can find a better place for you.”

“If you say so,” Jason murmured, clearly not convinced.

He ran ahead, inside.

And Bruce was angry still with the co-op parents and leaders, but he knew there were more important things. Things like reassuring Jason, like building him up and also finding him another place to learn.

They did find another co-op. This one was more open, had a wider range of thought and styles of homeschooling, and so on. Jason confessed to missing his science teacher from the old co-op, at least, but this one was good too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I have definitely known homeschoolers like this, though not all co-ops are this way. And I've known them to throw people out for bullshit reasons kinda like this one. 
> 
> But, like with any group of people loosely grouped together, every co-op is different and I've known some that were pretty great.
> 
> I hope this is a good. Mostly recovered from my concussion, in other news, and getting back on the ball with fanfic and writing. :)


	112. WE ARE YOUR CHILDREN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father's Day is a new concept for Cass, but one she adapts to readily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all need some fluff, I figure. :)

“Today is Father’s Day.”

Cass announced this somewhat unexpectedly, and Bruce could see Tim’s head jerk up from where he’d been stirring his malt-o-meal intently. 

“I suppose it is,” Bruce said, watching Cass. He wasn’t sure what she was trying to say—or if she was doing anything more than making an observation.

Cass seemed satisfied with Bruce’s response, and continued on. “I saw the children had flowers. And a big card.”

The Kaczkas across the street. They were a large Polish-American family, and Bruce knew both Mother’s and Father’s day met much fanfare over there. As well as birthdays, holidays, and so on. A lot of them. The Kaczkas were big on holidays in general.

“Did you want to make something?” Bruce asked, wondering if she was asking questions about the practice, or actively wanting to do something. It was often hard to tell with Cass.

Cass’s brown eyes seemed to examine him a moment, the warmly inquisitive look in them that she seemed to almost always have, and finally said. “Yes.”

Bruce couldn’t deny the little jump in his chest, an undeniably happy feeling. He said, “Well, what supplies do you need?”

“Paper. The thick kind,” Cass said, and she looked over at Tim. “I need glitter and Tim too.”

Tim looked a bit confused.

“Should I leave you two be for a while?” Bruce asked, getting the sense that what Cass wanted was the privacy necessary to make a proper surprise. It was hard to hide a project from him if he was in the room, after all.

Cass nodded fervently.

A glance at Tim showed him looking guardedly curious. 

“All right, let me know if you need anything,” Bruce said, and Cass beamed at him, heading over for the table. As Bruce left the room for upstairs, he could hear Tim assuring Cass, 

“Yeah, I know how to make that.”

He spent time upstairs with a book Tim was in the process of reading for school, _The Road to Serfdom_ , and had gotten through a good chunk before he was called back down.

There was a lot of glitter on the floor. Similarly, there was a lot on his children, which Tim seemed to be attempting to rub off his face and Cass seemed unabashedly proud of. She was literally glittering as she grinned at him.

“Surprise!” she shouted with a grin, as if acknowledging that it was really only so much of a surprise. 

And they’d apparently managed to glue together many thick pieces of construction paper to make a card about half Cass’s height, bedecked in glitter and simply bearing the title, ‘DAD.’

It was likely one of those moments Bruce would treasure for a long time, and he knew this because it felt like he might cry.

“Thank you,” he said, and he could see Tim brighten at the warm reception of their crafted card. “Can I see what’s inside?”

Cass handed it to him, still grinning, and he opened it, finding it equally bedecked in glitter, but also with a small note written in permanent marker.

It didn’t say what most store bought cards might say, at least of the non-humorous variety. 

‘DAD, WE ARE YOUR CHILDREN’

With cartoon figures of Luke and Leia off to the side, very clearly made by Tim.

Bruce smiled at the pair of them, saying, “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He couldn’t quite express how much it meant to him, and it was both somewhat painful and very happy, to the point his chest felt almost overfilled.

Cass hugged him, rather abruptly. Bruce squeezed her tightly, wondering what he did to deserve having such a ray of sunshine in his life. Her nose was pressed into his sternum, until she pulled her face back to grin at him.

There was something in her eyes. Something solidly connecting when he met them, like she was thinking that this was the way things ought to be. 

And Bruce knew her biological father was still out there. That Cass hadn’t forgotten him. But like he’d chosen her, she’d chosen him—Bruce, as her father.

And now he actually was crying, smoothing back her hair from her forehead.

That brought a somehow softer, warmer light to Cass’s eyes. She suddenly said, quietly, “Tim needs a hug too. He’s Luke.”

Bruce laughed a little at that, and extended an arm for Tim. 

Dick would have been proud of the group hug. And in fact, would be, later that night, when Cass related to him the event and he showed up with KFC to celebrate Father’s Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found about the first couple hundred words of this while I was going through my files--apparently, when you label everything as 'fanfic' followed by a number, you lose track. :P
> 
> I hope this is a pick me up.
> 
> I've been a bit behind on everything lately, and it was nice to update this. It's been interesting lately, but the weirdest thing is that it seems my mom is in a 'honeymoon' stage with me.
> 
> I didn't realize until my BF pointed it out.
> 
> The honeymoon stage is when they're very kind and affectionate and all the good things. Then, it usually goes back to the abusive behavior.
> 
> My mom is...overly warm now. Like nothing ever happened. Even though this time last year, she was literally trying to starve me out and make me sleep on a toddler mattress in a fume-filled basement. Like. That happened. And now she's 'so glad you came for a visit! I wish I could see you more! <3' and keeps trying to socially engineer her way into touching and hugging me.
> 
> On the upside, it means I can interact more easily with my baby bro. On the downside...I know exactly what she's doing, and, more importantly, that she's not being this nice to my siblings at home under her power. *sigh*
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the long note! Life continues to be interesting.


	113. Misery Does Not Love Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of Jason's death, Clark Kent comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super downer chapter, jsyk.

The aftermath of the funeral either brought out the cruelty or kindness of people.

Bruce couldn’t really tell the difference.

One Clark Kent, one Superman incognito, came up to him, and despite his threats of far before, murmured, “I’m sorry, Bruce.”

And for the life of him, Bruce couldn’t say if he was rubbing it in or not. All he knew was, the burn was there, like salt ground into his heart, and it was all he could not to start weeping there. Instead, he growled, “Fuck off. You didn’t like him. You don’t like _me._ ”

His tone seemed to startle Clark, because people were idiots, were stupid enough to believe one could be civil in the face of the death of a child.

Because they so stupidly seemed to expect a polished up affair like their elderly relatives got.

“Bruce--”

And just him uttering his name made Bruce want to kill the reporter. A desire to rip him to shreds was floating heavily in the achy haze that made up his mind, the grief that filled his chest painfully and threatened to spill from his mouth.

“Don’t talk to me,” was what he growled, rather than telling him to die or trying to make him do so. He had no right to be here.

Bruce had no right to put _Jason_ here. In spite of anything and everything anyone had said, he blamed himself.

And so did Dick.

Which was why he wasn’t here.

Which was also Bruce’s fault.

He wiped at his eyes, which itched terribly. It felt like someone had borrowed his eyes every night for weeks instead of letting them rest.

He didn’t particularly care, though.

He didn’t care about much as long as his child was not and could never be in his arms again. He didn’t care as long as nothing could ever be fixed.

You couldn’t fix death. There was no way to bring Jason back, to apologize, to make sure he knew he loved him.

And Clark Kent seemed to finally get the hint, backing off a bit. “I sent some flowers.”

Bruce could imagine his knuckles breaking as he punched Clark in his face, and it would be worth it. That face that looked like a rock trying to pretend it could care, when he never had. When he’d never considered anything other than the idea that Bruce was a renegade at best.

“Go fuck yourself,” Bruce snapped back, slamming his front door shut.

He could hear Clark Kent on the outside, shuffling around, and the man who’d never had to suffer like this was probably comparing it all to a dog he’d had who once died, like dogs did. It made Bruce want to rip the door back open and fight the man.

Maybe he’d at least put Bruce out of his misery.

Bruce shoved that thought away, because that would be the worst thing he could do. Especially to Jason. For now, he hid in the back room of the house and waited for Superman to leave.

Eventually, he did.

And still, Bruce didn’t really leave his position sitting at the table with his head buried in his arms. It felt like there was really no reason to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about being so absent of late. It's been interesting, and BF and I have been talking life plans, and I've been doing more things that aren't on the internet, I guess. I don't want to abandon everything, but for the moment, things might be a touch slower than months prior in updates or posting.


	114. No Thanks for the Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bette meets with her mom not long after being place with Bruce. It doesn't go well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter has slut-shaming and shaming of victims of sexual abuse. Just so you're forewarned.

Bette’s case was so different than the others’ had been. Bruce didn’t even know how to react at times, though he worked hard.

One of the hardest parts was that he knew the family—and they had their opinions of him. There was history, history of the Kanes bailing on him and leaving him in foster care, and there was history of their disdain for his parents.

Mrs. Kane startled Bruce the most. At least, that was what he thought in the moment.

She had come to see Bette when they had their first appointment of sorts, and where he’d remembered a vaguely smooth, white-teethed face, Mrs. Kane had aged considerably. She had blonde-ish brown hair, starting to get streaks of gray, and her face was definitely more wrinkled. She was wearing a pink blouse and gray pants, a fairly professional look, and a necklace with a symbol on it. Bruce couldn’t quite pick it out at the moment, but it looked like some sort of organization’s symbol.

Bette had grinned at her mom, but there was an obvious hesitation. A tension that Bette didn’t usually show, at least so far. “Hey Mom, how’s life?”

Her mother’s mouth pinched, and Bruce swore for a moment he could see hatred in the woman’s eyes. Just for an instant, though. “It’s going fine, Mary Elizabeth.”

Bette laughed, a tight sound. “Come on, Mom, even Bette sounds real old lady. I’d be one of those weirdass church ladies with the heavy red lipstick and hats if I really went by Mary Elizabeth.”

“It’s your name,” Mrs. Kane replied, an almost defense and an almost accusation. “I gave you that name.”

“Well, yeah, I couldn’t exactly protest when I was a newborn,” Bette said, and there was still that tone. That way there was almost confusion in her eyes.

Ms. Walker was watching, but not interfering.

“I gave you that name, Mary. Your father gave you your middle name. And yet...” 

Bruce tensed at Mrs. Kane’s tone, at the way she seemed to be collecting herself.

He wasn’t wrong to tense.

“And yet you’re doing this to us!” Mrs. Kane had almost leapt out of her seat, seizing Bette, who let out a shriek. “Do you think this is funny?! Do you think this is a fun game?! How dare you do this to me and your father!”

Ms. Walker had run almost faster than Bruce to pull Mrs. Kane off of Bette. The woman was still shouting at Bette.

“We gave you everything you could ever want! And you’ve never been grateful, you just have to have attention like a goddamn whore!” Mrs. Kane was screaming now, turning red in the face, tears in her eyes. “You fucking whore! How can you fucking do this after all we did for you?!”

Ms Walker was saying loudly, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, _now_ , or the police will be called, Mrs. Kane!”

Bruce found the woman was stronger than he expected.

It took several more agonizing moments of Mrs. Kane screaming profanities at Bette, but they finally got her outside—where she continued to scream at the house. 

Finally, though, she got into her car, where she crumpled against the wheel, sobbing.

Bruce almost felt sorry for her. And yet, when he went back in to see Bette still on the couch, shocked, pale, and with vivid red lines across the right side of her face, he felt like he could banish that pity for her mother. “Bette, are you okay?”

Bette’s lips trembled violently, and then she abruptly sprang up to her feet, running up to the girls’ room. Bruce followed at a wide distance, wanting to make sure she was okay.

She simply threw herself down on the bed and sobbed.

And Bruce wished Cass was home, though he knew she wouldn’t be back for a bit more, because she was honestly better with Bette than he was. For now, he gave Bette a bit of privacy, and spoke with Ms. Walker.

Ms. Walker assured him that Mrs. Kane would not be visiting again any time soon. 

After a few more moments, of both advice and clearly silent anger at Mrs. Kane, Ms. Walker left. Mrs. Kane had already taken off.

Cass returned home a remarkable fifteen minutes after that, asking, “Is visiting over?”

“Yes, but it didn’t go well,” Bruce sighed. The other kids would be back from their excursion to the library in an hour or so. He didn’t look forward to it, in some ways.

Cass nodded, and went upstairs.

Bruce went up later with water and chicken soup, cautiously peeking in the doorway. He could hear Bette talking to Cass, admitting,

“I wish I’d never said anything. I wish I’d fucking never said anything. It isn’t even a fucking big goddamn deal, it was so much better before--”

“I know.”

Cass’s agreement startled Bruce a little, but then she continued, “It’s worse before it gets better. Always.”

“Yeah,” Bette hiccupped, “Yeah, well, now my fucking mom fucking hates my guts, so that’s pretty fucking worse.”

Bruce backed away a bit as he saw Cass pull Bette into a hug.

He shouldn’t be intruding.

It would be significantly later that they showed up downstairs. Bette said nothing about being attacked by her mother, but she seemed calmer.

Bruce hoped that she’d be all right. This was just not something he knew how to deal with well. Even with Tim, it had been very different.

For now, though, he found Cass was surprisingly empathetic to Bette, and he hoped that would help her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter works well. 
> 
> In this, Mrs. Kane believes her husband over Bette, which is the shittiest feeling. She very much believes Bette is making this up for attention or for fun, because to believe otherwise would put her life in shambles, though that's more subconscious.
> 
> It is a thing that happens at times, and it's why I'm always wary of people who fervently attest to the unlikelihood of abuse being committed by someone they know and love/admire.


	115. Chokehold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick gives Tim a piggyback ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat more fluffy chapter ahead!

The thing about Tim was, being carried in any fashion was not normal for him. He seemed to much prefer, or at least be used to, quite literally standing on his own two feet, and be quite hesitant to do anything else.

This was why it was a surprise to see Tim coming home from school on Dick’s back, fingers gripping Dick’s hoodie to the point his fingertips and joints were white. He looked sort of vaguely fearful and uncertain, and Bruce’s stomach dropped—was he hurt? Had his parents visited him at school? Was he being bullied?

But then he registered that Dick was laughing a bit, chatting in a rather friendly, soothing manner, assuring Tim he was ‘doing great.’

A lump rose in Bruce’s throat as he remembered Dick carrying Jason on his back, but he came out to meet them. “What happened?”

Dick laughed, saying, “Nothing big, I swear. Tim just lost his shoe to a storm drain, so I’m giving him a piggyback ride home.”

Tim did indeed have a somewhat soppy-looking sock on one foot and a shoe on the other. “Sorry...”

“It could have happened to anyone,” Dick insisted, “And you’re taking it like a champ.”

Tim flushed, looking rather confused by the praise. His muscles still looked extremely tense, though, so Bruce offered him a hand down, helping him into the house.

“Um, sorry about, uh--” Tim started, looking at Dick but not quite in the eyes, and his face was still rather red. 

“No prob, Tim, I’m fine,” Dick insisted. He was insisting things a lot. Bruce figured he’d better ask if anything had happened later.

“I left a snack on the table,” Bruce told Tim, “Milk and crackers with peanut butter.”

“Thank you,” Tim said, and then he dashed off, wet sock slapping a little against the hard floor of the dojo.

Bruce looked at Dick quizzically, and the look he got at least assured him it wasn’t serious.

“He accidentally choked me when I tried to get him to let me give him a piggyback ride,” Dick said. “I don’t think he’s had a piggyback ride in years, if ever.”

“Choked you?” Bruce was slightly concerned, and sort of wondering how Tim had managed that.

“He just sort of wrapped his arms around my neck instead of shoulders. He was _really_ nervous about me carrying him,” Dick explained further. He shook his head, smiling in that affectionate way that Bruce had seen him directing towards Tim more and more. “It took a while to get him to try again.”

“I see,” Bruce said.

“But hey, he let me, eventually,” Dick said, looking over at Bruce. “He’s a really good kid.”

It was quiet between them a moment, and Bruce couldn’t tell for sure if it was an accusation, if it was _you’d better take good care of him_ or a self reflection, an _I hope I can take good care of him._

“We’ll have to find him another pair of shoes,” Dick finally said.

“He has a second pair,” Bruce assured him. “It’s okay.”

There was quiet again, up until Tim showed up holding a can of ginger ale and the broken off opener. And then there was something to be done, which was something of a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was me, a little, when my BF tried to give me a piggyback ride cause shoes ceased to work. I choked him by accident cause I did not know how to do.
> 
> It'd definitely been well over a decade since the last one I'd had, which was likely when I was four or five or so. And I am terribly awkward about letting people support me in a physical sense or, in related vein, falling down. (Hence, concussions in karate)
> 
> BF was okay, but somewhat startled.
> 
> Knowing how to let yourself be carried is a body intelligence thing you kind of have to learn, and I had long since forgotten it. Especially since certain siblings were fond of unexpected dropping or removing support.


	116. Not a Fan of Green (Lantern)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman meets Green Lantern for the first time. Hal has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short little bit I thought was fun. :P

It wasn’t every day that Bruce saw Jason encased in a glowing green box. When that was swiftly followed up by Dick being held back by the same green force, though, it wasn’t hard to imagine seeing red in response.

“...just trying to stop the gang of vandals,” Dick was explaining, surprisingly patient for being restrained. Bruce kept to the shadows, taking in this foe.

“Dressed like criminals? I kind of doubt that,” he heard in response, and he knew he instantly disliked this man. He sounded vaguely militaristic and too good for the teenage boys he’d just captured. He sounded like the kind of man who got drunk on the weekends. He sounded like the kind of guy who’d brush off someone who needed his help if he didn’t like their attitude.

“We’re not criminals!” Jason snapped.

“Well, you kids can explain that to the police and your parents,” the man in green said, and he started to move to take them away.

That was when Bruce struck, a solid hit with a nearby trashcan lid to the man’s head.

The resounding clatter matched the exact timing of when both his sons were dropped, the green disappearing entirely.

“Go!” Bruce said, and they needed no further encouragement, hightailing it out of there. He was already back to being hidden by the time the man groaned, 

“...what the hell…?” and started to stand, holding the back of his head. He then looked around wildly, trying to spot either the ‘criminals’ he’d apprehended or where the hell that trashcan lid had come from. He succeeded in neither.

Bruce didn’t know enough about this man to approach him. He didn’t know how to counter the green power that seemed to come from his ring. Instead, he used his skills to stay hidden and observe.

“Well that’s just great,” the man complained to himself, “Apparently my only weakness is teenagers who like trash.”

It was a joke, but it almost made Bruce laugh for different reasons—the man didn’t realize it wasn’t a group of vagabond teenagers he’d been dealing with. That would probably work out fine for Batman, Nightwing, and Robin for the moment.

He took a mental image of the symbol on the man’s chest, and then his ring, and then slipped away silently.

Much further into the future, Hal Jordan would have no idea why Batman seemed to dislike him ‘when we literally just met.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought y'all would enjoy this one. I hope it works, in that sense! At this point, their costumes are pretty recognizable to people who live in the area, but they blend in a lot more than superhero costumes would. Hence, mistaking them for vagabonds.


	117. Who Do You Think You Are? (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass meets her father for the first time in years.

“Fine,” Cass assured him, not for the first time.

“I know you say you’re fine,” Bruce said back, “But it’s all right if you want to sit this out. They’re supposed to have a mercenary there, and he might be from your neck of the woods.” 

“I am _fine_ ,” Cass emphasized heavily, looking at Bruce like he was a few ornaments short of a Christmas tree. She seemed incredulous at the idea that _she_ could be compromised in the field, even though she readily accepted the idea about literally everyone else.

Bruce huffed out a sigh. “Stay close to Dick, then.”

Cass nodded, and slipped on her mask.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Someone was selling dangerous drugs marketed as birth control, as a ‘fix it’ for girls who felt there was no way to be pregnant, whether it was explaining it or raising the child. Bruce didn’t always step in to every situation in the area, but this one was gallingly personal and frankly, evil. There were many ways people took advantage of people in desperate straits, but this was one that he found especially appalling. 

It was with the anger still burning in his chest that he made the error of not benching Cass. Not benching her when there was even the slightest possibility they might run into her father.

David Cain.

He hadn’t known it would be Cain, but he should have guessed.

Cass was so convinced that she would be fine, that she _had_ to be, since it was only her, Roy, and Dick on this one with him, that he should have recognized the hubris for what it was. That he should have realized this would not go well.

It was covert. They were supposed to destroy the pills and the means of making and acquiring them, and hit up the extra stores within the next few hours. Cass was with Dick. Roy was with him.

Roy neatly destroyed all the equipment, his precision aim meaning doing most of it without attracting any attention whatsoever.

Dick and Cass were supposed to have destroyed the pills. They were supposed to have already slipped out quietly, as Bruce finished placing the low grade explosives on the equipment.

Instead, he heard a crash.

He and Roy were already booking it to the source before he even placed that it was the sound of fighting, of someone being hit into something very breakable.

He heard the harsh words as he turned the corner, seeing Cass poised over a man with white hair, as she ground out, “Who do you think you are?”

She might as well have shrieked it at him, for all the anger buried in it.

The man had blue eyes, but he had something uncanny about him. And he seemed unruffled by this turn of events, looking back up at her with slightly raised eyebrows. Like this was unexpected, but not strictly unpleasant. Like an added appointment in a calendar.

He squinted a moment, and murmured, “It _is_ you.”

He said in a mildly bemused tone, like he’d been wondering where she got off to. Not like the man who had abused the hell out of a child, who had then escaped.

She slammed a heel into his solar plexus, flattening him against the ground. “If you take another girl, like with me, another child...” she paused for a breath, perhaps for words, “I will kill you.”

A sort of cold horror settled in Bruce’s chest, terrified that this man would kill his daughter, or attempt to, or harm her in some way. He was already on his feet, ready to run into the scene, when Cain huffed a sort of humorless laugh.

“Understood.”

Understood…? Bruce was confused. He paused, seeing the situation was delicate.

But Cass backed off at that point, her body tight, tense. And David Cain stood up, turning to leave.

“Oh.” Cass suddenly said, a bizarrely commonplace noise, “When is my birthday?”

“January 26th,” David Cain responded, turning his head back to watch Cass in a way that made Bruce’s skin crawl violently. His look was one almost of _pride_. “Find me when you want to use my training the way you were meant to.”

“No.” Cass said this sharply, firmly, absolutely no room for anything else.

His eyes swept the room, seeming to take in Bruce, Roy, and probably Dick. “We’ll see.”

And then he left, like he’d done nothing unusual.

Bruce could see Dick already running to Cass’s side, out of breath, starting to demand why he’d been locked out, but that was when Cass _bolted._

She was fast enough that even Bruce was shocked, and that was all it took to escape.

“Cass!” he shouted, a new horror overtaking him.

His child was _gone._

And only god knew where she would go, in this case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that the comics handled her meeting him again really well. Like, insanely well. She didn't expect to feel the things she did, but the emotional upheaval was extremely realistic, I felt.
> 
> I've felt a milder version of that more than once, mostly when people would take advantage of the fact I was in a customer service job and had to be civil to tell me I needed to go back to church and also talk to my parents cause I 'was making them so sad.' More recently, I've had the doctor that enabled my parents show up at my writers' group, and that's been rough. I felt a kind of anger I haven't for a long time, because it felt particularly invasive. She's obviously allowed to be at a group that anyone can be in, but it was shocking for me. I didn't lash out at her or anything like that, but it was an emotional rollercoaster.
> 
> And she will likely be there tomorrow too, when there's group again. I have been having panic and anxiety for the two weeks since, though I've been dealing with it much better than in the past.
> 
> In any case, I hope to have the second part up soon. It's partly the feeling I'm trying to resolve and partly that I fucking love Cass and I haven't really given her larger pieces, I think.


	118. Who Do You Think You Are? (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass is searched for.

Cass was gone. And he had no idea where to find her.

Bruce was pretty certain he _should_ know where to find her, but he didn’t. And this was a pounding guilt in the back of his skull as he pounded the pavement searching.

He’d like to say she couldn’t have gone far, but that wasn’t quite the truth; Cass was very resourceful and fast, so ‘far’ was relative.

“Cass! Cassie!” Dick was calling. His face still had the blotched beginnings of a massive bruise, but he’d insisted he was fine when Bruce had asked. Bruce hadn’t hesitated further than that, knowing they didn’t have much time.

Roy, on the other hand, was in a different direction and calling out for Cass in a somewhat more guarded tone. He had always been a bit more cautious in these areas, and he seemed more on edge for further potential attackers.

The night was wet, rain seeming unable to decide whether or not it should fall. He hoped it didn’t start pouring, as it was supposed to later that morning. Bruce’s footsteps were crunching on the wet asphalt and concrete, sounds seeming to echo in the night in the absence of Cass’s return call or sounds.

Where would she go?

His daughter was probably his most mysterious child, he realized, and he _should know_ where she’d be. 

He suddenly noticed the movement off towards the back of an alley. It had to be Cass. He moved in that direction, eager to find her and have her safe, but not trying to scare her away. He didn’t know what she was thinking, if she was upset, or thought he was angry with her, or what.

He found Cass. She was curled into a ball. She’d probably been there for the twenty minutes or so that they’d been searching for her. Her chin rested on her knees, and she’d removed her mask. She didn’t look up at him as he approached.

“Cass?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes were full of pain, glinting a little in the small light. Her face was raw red. “It would...be easier.”

He sank down next to her, not asking yet what she meant. 

“If...he were...just _evil._ ”

She was looking at him like she wanted him to understand, and yet, was certain he could not. Like she was too disgusting to understand. It made Bruce’s chest seem to clench painfully, unable to come up with words for a moment as he realized: Cass’s feelings were not nearly so simple as anger or hatred. And he should have known that.

“Cass...it’s normal to...to want our parents to be easy to understand,” Bruce tried softly. “It would be easier to just...hate him.”

He’d hit the nail on the head when Cass nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“But you don’t.”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Her mouth twitched, and her eyes took on an agonizingly angry glow. “I _can not._ ”

And that was perhaps one the greatest acts of cruelty that David Cain had taken against his daughter—contriving to rob her of her voice. Of words. It hadn’t quite worked, but it left Cass with a lot of difficulties.

Bruce reached very carefully, smoothing back her hair from her face. Speaking her language, so to speak, was perhaps the best option here. He continued to smooth back her hair, watching the anger slowly dim, slowly be let go—for now, at least.

He could see the way she looked at him, like she was searching for understanding. He met her eyes, pulling down his own mask. He made certain not to waver, trying to communicate that he accepted her as she was, that he loved her no matter how she felt about the man who’d raised her.

That he would always be here.

“It is...like fire,” Cass murmured to him.

“I know,” Bruce responded.

“And drowning,” Cass added.

“I know,” he agreed.

She seemed to take this as understanding, or at least close enough to it, and she situated herself under his arm. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and felt the relief flood him.

He pulled out the walkie talkie and signaled the other two.

They went home, Cass in the passenger seat this time. She made no more comments, but she did keep gazing at him.

She said nothing more on David Cain for a long time.

Bruce still didn’t doubt that she meant every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I have mixed feelings at many points about my parents. 
> 
> And, in my opinion, the part that hurts the most from most parental abuse is that you love your parents, and this is true for Cass. He was very literally the only person in her life who truly mattered, and even though she knows he hurt her and did terrible things, she can't shake that feeling.
> 
> It's a hard one to parse through, in any case.


	119. Thanks for These Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian and Thanksgiving can be a tricky combination.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Damian, it’s basically secular,” Tim said, rolling his eyes and yawning.

Bruce had to admit, Damian sitting there with crossed arms and a stony, defiant expression was not his idea of a peaceful Thanksgiving. He was definitely more dour than usual, and it was no secret he wasn’t a fan of the holiday.

“Tim, don’t bother your brother,” Bruce said, wanting to maintain the fragile peace that kept Damian at least at the table.

“Like, Tim is performing a service for everyone at the table who isn’t an asshole,” Bette said, frowning but not looking at Damian. She was busy putting the last of the sweet potatoes on the table, marshmallows nesting in the middle of them.

“Bette, that’s not kind,” Bruce said.

“Of course not,” Cass said, looking at him in mild confusion. “It wasn’t trying to be kind.”

Bruce had to admit, it wasn’t exactly subtle on Bette’s part. “My point is, please treat Damian with respect--”

“We are giving thanks, are we not?” Damian interrupted sharply, glaring over at Tim and Bette.

“Yes, we are, cause some of us know what gratitude is,” Bette sniped back.

“I didn’t intend to eat the carcass of a dead bird _or_ have it in my face, if that’s what you’re speaking of,” Damian sneered.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have sat in the middle of the goddamn table, then!” Bette snapped.

“Turkey is good,” Cass mentioned, seeming put out by the destruction of the bird. Bruce knew she enjoyed that particular bit of Thanksgiving, especially as she got the wishbone last year.

“Guys, we said we were going to let that go,” Bruce said, “I would very much like to have a peaceful Thanksgiving.”

It was the first year that he was celebrating without Dick, after all, and he usually relied on him for an awful lot of things. Things he hadn’t totally realized until almost the day of.

“’We’ agreed on nothing fucking like that!” Bette snapped, throwing an arm up in the air. “I slaved over that dumb bird, okay!”

“ _If_ we are giving thanks, “ Damian cut in, voice sharp, “I have some ‘thanks’ for whatever you think we’re thanking.”

“Damian, I don’t know--” Bruce started, but Damian had gotten going.

“Dear whoever this holiday is dedicated to, thank you for imbeciles who believe that eating birds is a celebration. Thank you for idiots who never sleep and think cranberry sauce is a pillow. Thank you for people who try to force others to celebrate things that don’t matter. Also, thank you for slaughtering all the Native Americans and animals all the way up to this most glorious day. And thank you for Richard opting to be absent.” Damian stood up and threw his chair away, letting it clatter to the floor and fold, Tim jolting awake and Cass twitching out of the way of the chair.

Bette was quiet, but when she spoke, as Damian stormed towards the back door, “Oh, fuck you. Go cry me a goddamn river. Cass and I both got the day off from our shit, right, so even if the whole thing’s fucking dumb, I worked all goddamn day to have a nice meal with my fucking family, and all you can do is throw a tantrum--!”

“It is _not_ a tantrum!” Damian snapped back. “I have no desire to be part of this ridiculous holiday--”

“Well then, you can go somewhere else! I made vegetarian food for you, but I guess Tim will just fucking eat it,” Bette said, eyes wet with tears and voice wobbling angrily.

Bruce stepped in about then, going over to Damian. “Damian, let’s talk—we all need a chance to cool off.”

“Just like the meal,” Bette complained.

Cass had come over at that point, wrapping her arms around Bette in what had to be a very comforting hug. “It’s okay.”

“Cass, you’d eat a rug with cheese on it and not complain,” Bette pointed out. “It’s much better hot.”

Damian was glaring, but he went with Bruce outside. He sat down next to one of the planters, the both of them barren at this time of year. “I don’t want to celebrate this holiday.”

“Can you explain me to why? Because Bette worked very hard, and destroying the turkey was unfair to her.” He’d had a mind to say so at the moment of the turkey’s destruction, but he’d thought they’d managed a fragile peace. Apparently, they had not.

“Eating animals is--”

“Something that you almost never bother the rest of the family about,” Bruce said. “Please, be honest with me.”

Damian scowled, but instead of continuing on his rant about eating animals, he said, “I did not appreciate the bird in my face, it is true. But this is one of the worst holidays we have had thus far.”

“How do you figure?”

“To begin with, Tim is sick and sleeping on the table. It’s disgusting, and he should be in his bed. For another, Bette is annoying. For a third, both Richard and Roy are gone, and they are preferable to almost everyone here. For a fourth, this holiday is based on a ridiculous notion and was made up for American propaganda. For a fifth, everyone is supporting Bette even when she’s being a fool. For a sixth...” 

Damian looked over at Bruce, seeming almost surprised that his litany wasn’t being challenged as he spoke it.

“Hm. Well, I will admit that it’s not the most fun celebration we’ve had, but Tim can’t help being sick, and Dick and Roy are coming back in a few days. Also, the reason that it seems like everyone is supporting Bette is that the main reason we, as a family, celebrate this holiday is that we get to get together and have good food. I don’t have students today, and many of our family members have time off. So, why not celebrate?”

Damian frowned, looking down at his feet. He didn’t say anything for a moment.

“It’s miserable, though.”

Bruce could certainly see where Damian was coming from. Bette had already been in a bit of a mood before the meal, fussing over the turkey and other foods. She’d refused help, insisting this meal would ‘knock last year’s out of the water.’

Tim was undeniably miserable, trying to sleep off some sort of flu that no one else had managed to catch.

Dick and Roy being gone made it worse; Dick was buoyant, Roy was solid, and both tended to lend their help to their siblings.

Cass seemed confused by the emotional whirlwind that seemed to surround Bette and Damian.

“Well...it doesn’t have to be miserable. We could talk to Bette, and have a more laid back day.”

Damian’s ears seemed to perk up cautiously at this. “We could watch a movie—for Timothy’s sake, of course. He’d likely prefer the couch to a folding chair.”

That made Bruce smile, slightly. “Well, if it’s for Tim’s sake, I don’t see why not. What movie do you think he’d like?”

“The horse movie.” Damian said it with such certainty, and Bruce knew which one he was talking about. Damian had a penchant for animal movies that were well made. He also liked one about Selkies they’d seen a while back, from an Irish film company. 

And Bruce knew Tim was going to sleep through it either way. “All right, let’s go talk to Bette.”

What made Bruce a lot more thankful that day was that he didn’t have to tell Damian to apologize to Bette. And he didn’t have to tell Bette to apologize in turn. In spite of the rather harsh words thrown back and forth, it seemed Bette and Cass and possibly Tim had talked while they were gone, and things had cooled down.

He and Cass made up paper plates full of food for everyone, since Bette had done enough already, and they returned to find Tim drooling on Bette and Damian perched on the edge of his seat, eyes locked on the screen as a horse came running across the plain.

All in all, it was not the worst Thanksgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Thanksgiving as a holiday is a bit weird, because it is more recent than it lets on, and it is kinda based on being thankful for genocide. Sort of. I mean, the supposed first one was in 1621, and it became a national holiday in the midst of the Civil War, so...it has some things in common with the whole Columbus Day and 'Under God We Trust' stuff.
> 
> Anyway, my personal feeling is that Thanksgiving is an occasion to be with family/friends, and that's how my batfam would celebrate it, since many of them would get the day off. Also, what with Black Friday/Early Thanksgiving traffic, it would be a good time to stay home.
> 
> Also, poor Tim. I was really sick for last Thanksgiving, but more of a 'constantly getting asthma attacks and panicking about it' cold kind of sick. DX 
> 
> I hope this was an acceptable chapter!


	120. Like a Lamb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian hates hats...sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short fluff chapter.

Damian looked adorable.

And Bruce would never dare to say so. Not because he thought his son might hit him, though that was a possibility, or because he might break something in the house in the retaliation.

It was that he didn’t want to break that rather fragile peace on Damian’s face.

Bruce could see him and Dick sitting together, making a bed for the kittens his cat had brought home after a long absence. They were putting old pillows and blankets in a box, lining the bottom with newspaper keeping the lip of the box low.

They discussed quietly what would entice the cat to bring her kittens here, instead of hiding under the sink with them.

But none of that, not the gentle attitude towards his cats nor the quiet companionship between him and Dick, was what was bringing Bruce the most joy right now.

It was the hat.

Damian often decried hats, claiming they were poorly made. Dick had apparently put two and two together and figured out that it was the scratchy yarn, and gotten him a very soft hat.

A white one, with little pinkish and white ears, that could only be described as a lamb hat.

Bruce had a feeling the hat would come off once the others got home, but it made him happy to see Damian happy and comfy in it until then. So he disappeared back out the back door to find more to sweep up and clean.

He hoped the day would come that Damian would feel comfortable to wear whatever he felt like around his siblings, and even the world at large. He didn’t know it would happen, but he hoped. Damian in the lamb hat was, strangely enough, _hope_ to Bruce.

When Damian came out with Bette to sort recyclables, he wasn’t wearing it, but he was civil, almost friendly, to her.

Bruce doubted it was the last he’d see of the hat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a list of older prompts, and I wanted to do at least one chapter for Memorial Day. It should be a good day. :)


	121. Year of the Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian wants to spar against his siblings with a sword.

“You may not spar with a sword.”

If Bruce expected Damian to accept his word as law, he would be disappointed, and this time was no different.

“In a real fight, I would have a sword. I wouldn’t lay it down just because my opponent didn’t have one,” Damian insisted, the blade not drawn yet, but his hand on the hilt. And it would have been a valid point, except for the fact that harming your siblings with a sword was a terrible idea.

“Damian, this isn’t a real fight. It’s practice. We don’t break bones, punch to the head, or draw blood, why on earth would you have a sword?” Bruce wasn’t sure how to impress on Damian that their style of martial arts was very different than what he’d grown up with. He was forever having to turn around to make sure Damian wasn’t employing lethal or severely damaging technique.

“Tt. If my opponent were good at fighting, there would be no issue with my having a sword. You’re insulting their ability, are you not?” Damian seemed pleased with himself for having come up with this argument; his eyes were very intense.

Bruce could have screamed into a pillow. Instead, he took a deep breath, and said, voice softer than his emotion was, “Damian. I said you may not fight your siblings with a sword. Please put it back.”

“Fight me.”

This startled Bruce, and he turned to see Cass had offered herself up as victim.

Damian, however, seemed keen on this, smirking. “Well, at least someone is up to the challenge, Father. And Cain’s an adult.”

Bruce had to take a moment to decide, and, looking at Cass, he could see she thought this was a good idea. She gave him a minute nod.

“On a deal, though,” she said. “If you lose, you have to put away the sword for sparring for one year.”

Damian hesitated. Then he finally said, “Well, in spite of your poor English, I will accept this condition.”

Cass just nodded, the insult sliding off of her like water off a duck’s back.

“I’ll allow it. This time,” Bruce sighed, feeling that he could trust Cass.

And trust indeed he could, as in spite of Damian’s training, Cass was leagues above him and swiftly had him disarmed and pinned.

He didn’t tap out, though, going red and struggling in the hold. “This is—this is unacceptable—cheating--”

“No cheating,” Cass insisted, keeping him pinned.

Bruce wasn’t sure if he should step in.

“Tap out,” Cass told Damian.

“No,” Damian snarled.

And then there was a strange popping noise, and Damian seemed to tap out, crying out. Bruce immediately ran forward, demanding, “Are you hurt?”

If Cass had hurt him to prove a point…

But Damian was rolling his wrist around, seemingly not broken, and while his eyes were intense, he seemed less than ready to attack Cass. His mouth was tight, and he finally said, “A deal is a deal.”

Much to Bruce’s shock, he turned and left the dojo area. 

He found him again later, outside fighting a dummy with his sword. The look in his eyes was focused, his face reddish, and the intent to beat Cassandra was evident in every stroke of the blade.

Bruce only hoped he wouldn’t really take up a sword against Cass in a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Very, very long delay. I am sorry about that.
> 
> Right now, things have been very busy, and very busy for good, good reason. I'm getting married! To my boyfriend, who is one of the best beings I've ever known. And it's been quite the journey from our first meeting to my moving in with him to now. He's helped me through some very rough periods, and I've helped him as well. It makes me really happy to know someone who I can communicate honestly with and who has been with me through some of the roughest times of my life.
> 
> Updates may still be slow for a while, and for that, I apologize.
> 
> As for the chapter itself here, it's kinda a snapshot of folks trying to get along with Damian. Cass is not exactly one hundred percent correct in her approach here, but at the very least it would be a familiar thing to Damian. Cass is not perfect either, and in many ways, Bruce is at a bit of a loss here. Sparring is normal and people get injured in sparring, but this might maybe be crossing a fine line a bit. Not certain.


	122. Enemy of My Former Enemy Is Not My Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Damian don't fight each other, but someone still gets punched out.

It wasn’t often Bruce was called to anything on account of Tim.

He’d gotten called to co-ops and groups many times for Jason, Dick, Damian, Bette, and even Cass. But Tim? Not so much. Some teachers really appreciated him as a pupil. Others at least put up with his occasional sloppiness and tendency to become bored fast with work that didn’t engage him. 

But to be called and asked to come down immediately was very bad news every time Bruce had heard it, and when he’d asked if Tim was hurt, he certainly hadn’t gotten the answer he’d expected. “He’s fine, Mr. Wayne, but we need to speak with you about his behavior immediately.”

“I see,” was all Bruce had said, and gone in.

He arrived to see Tim sitting in the office of the main teacher of the co-op. Office was, perhaps, a strong word. It was simply one of the roughly five basement rooms that St. John’s let the co-op use for their school. His son was pointedly not looking at him, and seeming to be sporting a bruise on the side of his face.

Bruce immediately took his seat, turning to Tim. “What happened?”

The woman in charge, who was at least decidedly less formal and traditional than many he’d met, said, “Timothy decided that the best way to solve conflict was to punch out another student.”

Bruce couldn’t help it, his eyebrows felt comically raised. _Tim?_ Decided to solve things with his fists? This had literally _never_ been a problem.

Tim still wasn’t looking at him.

“Why on earth--” Bruce started.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” the teacher responded. “Timothy hasn’t explained his reasoning quite yet, in spite of being reminded that violence is unacceptable in this school.”

Bruce turned to face Tim, and said, tone a bit stern, “Tim. Explain to me what happened.”

Tim seemed to take the time to decide whether or not he would comply, and then how best to comply. He bit at one of his fingernails a moment, and then finally said, “Stuart was harassing Damian.”

He still wasn’t looking quite directly at Bruce, but if he had, the shock might have been evident.

And then the fear struck momentarily that the student Tim had punched out had in fact been Damian, but Bruce quickly realized that he would have been informed if Damian had been punched. He realized that it was exactly what it sounded like: Tim had defended Damian.

“That certainly explains his black eye,” the teacher said rather dryly. 

Tim took that as a cue to continue. “He said that Damian didn’t...well, that he didn’t have a soul. And then he kept touching him—you know, the whole ‘I’m not touching you’ thing, and… and then he jabbed him with a pencil, and Dad, if you’d been there, you would’ve decked him too. Dami shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of b-bullshit.”

Bruce didn’t mention that he certainly hoped he wouldn’t deck a teenager for harassing his kid, but he was a weird mix of happy and frustrated. He cleared his throat, and said, “We still don’t attack people. I didn’t teach you how to throw a punch so you could punch your fellow students.”

Tim’s head dipped a bit, but he mumbled, “I’m not sorry.”

The teacher put in, with a sigh, “I’ve seen Stuart’s behavior towards several of our students, so this doesn’t come as a total surprise. We have a strict rule against violence, so there will be consequences, but I understand wanting to defend your brother. You will be suspended from co-op for a month, and you must apologize.”

“But--”

“Stuart will have to answer for his actions. But so do you. This school is a place of non-violence, and while we don’t have a zero-tolerance policy, I absolutely won’t allow students to hit each other. It’s in the charter that your father signed when you began here,” the teacher said.

Bruce, obviously, recalled this. “Thank you. I believe that’s appropriate—as is a refresher course on misusing the skills you’ve been taught.” He directed that last bit at Tim, and Tim had the decency to finally look at least a little ashamed.

“Then we’re done here. I have Brit Lit to teach,” the teacher said, standing. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce wrapped up the meeting quickly, and took Tim out to the van. It would be a bit before they could reasonably leave, since the others would finish up in a half-an-hour and it would take more than that to drive home and come back to get them.

It worked out well this way, Bruce thought.

He looked over at Tim, who had pointedly hidden his face in a book Bruce absolutely knew he was not reading (since when did Tim actually read Shakespeare instead of seeking out Sparknotes?) and said, softly,

“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you standing up for Damian. I just don’t appreciate you punching someone.”

Tim let out a huff. “Well, if it hadn’t been me, it would have been Damian. He was like an overheating kettle, Dad, and I’ve never gotten in trouble for violence so it had to be me.” He looked rather disgruntled over the cover of his book at Bruce, but then his eyes widened. “Oh god, are you crying? I’m sorry!”

Bruce didn’t think he was crying, but the feelings must have been showing in his face to shock Tim that badly. He couldn’t quite put it into words, but it was like an invisible hard spot in his chest had melted. He could think back all too easily to when Damian had attempted to get rid of Tim, and how thereafter Tim had been cold to Damian at best, cruel at his worst. 

In a couple of years’ time, a lot had changed.

“I understand,” Bruce said, and because it looked like Tim was freaking out and did not want to talk about it, he asked, “So, how are you planning on keeping your studies going while you’re suspended from the co-op?”

“Well, first off, I don’t really need Shakespeare that much, Dad, everyone knows that’s what dusty old people and Jason like,” Tim said, settling comfortably into the subject. “Second, I was thinking that maybe there’re better, shorter alternatives to reading Shakespeare...”

The argument about the value of Shakespeare would last almost until the others got out. Bruce didn’t miss the look that Damian had when he looked at Tim, and he didn’t miss the way Tim only looked at Damian when he was sure the other was clambering into the back and wouldn’t see him check to make sure he was okay.

Bruce kept these things to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this came off right. It felt hard to balance, in some ways, since punching people isn't okay but neither is bullying people. And protecting folks is good. :P
> 
> Also, guess who's married now? (It's me) 
> 
> :D
> 
> Saw all the family at the wedding, and in spite of Drama, it turned out very well and I am a happy newlywed. It's been quite the journey so far, and I've been happy to share what I have with y'all even though updating slowed a lot. Danke!


	123. Among Familiar Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim sees his relatives for the first time in a long time.
> 
> A lot has changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is death and a funeral discussed in here, but not in graphic detail or anything, just so y'all know.

It was an unusually solemn day at the Wayne household. Bruce didn’t know how to feel about it, on some level, and yet, he couldn’t help but be proud of Tim.

Timothy Thomas Wayne. Bruce couldn’t deny that the name change was something that brought a pang to his heart, and yet felt so warm. 

He’d had it changed as an adult, without so much as telling Bruce until after the fact. And, in all honesty, Bruce could see elements of himself and his father in Tim, in spite of a lack of blood relation. 

He looked sharp in his suit; it still meant a lot to Bruce that he’d asked him to come with him, along with Damian. 

Damian was still not a big fan of gatherings, and he’d made a small grumbling at the idea of going to a funeral, but he’d matured a lot since those years ago when he and Tim first met. He was taller than Tim now, though not by a lot. He was built like Bruce—like a linebacker.

“You’ll look as if you’re taking bodyguards with you,” Damian had argued, “Take Cassandra or Bette. Or perhaps Helena. She’s the most unassuming out of all of us.”

That had made Tim laugh, which seemed to have been Damian’s aim. “No, it’s okay. I don’t want to bring Helena to a funeral, and Bette and Cass are out of state for the weekend. And yes, everyone else I’d want to take can’t for some reason or another, so you’re stuck with it.”

It wasn’t said in a dismissive way, but it made Damian sigh. He could likely tell that he didn’t actually have to come, and that Tim could easily go alone or with Bruce. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to go, then. Try not to feel short.”

Tim had rolled his eyes and thrown Damian a black tie.

And now, here they were. At the funeral of a man Tim hadn’t seen in years—a distant uncle he’d mentioned once or twice to Bruce at best.

He’d said he’d always been friendly when he’d been around, but he’d never been an option for guardianship—he didn’t even spend much time in the country a decade ago. His liver had done him in, though, and so here they were.

Bruce felt like he was bracing for something, but when they walked into the funeral parlor, it was a muted cleanliness that greeted them. There were old style lamps and embroidered couches. 

There were printed out cards with a picture of an almost elderly man on them; it detailed his birthdate, and his life; who survived him, a young wife and two stepchildren; and then also said he would be buried at a military cemetery for his service several decades back.

There was a line to speak to said young wife and stepchildren. She was perhaps a decade older than Tim, and her nose was red and her eyes were puffy. Her hands were shaky as she reached for tissues, and as she shook hands and hugged with various family members.

The stepkids were perhaps 10 and 8, and they didn’t look like they entirely understood what had happened, the younger toying with her sweater and the older looking over at his mother and the copious amount of tissues with a wrinkled brow. Then he would look to the open casket, and his eyes would dart back to his hands.

Tim reached his aunt, and said that he was sorry she’d lost her husband. She hugged him, saying, “He would’ve been glad to see you here, Timothy.”

Bruce could see that it made Tim tear up, and he and Damian offered their condolences as well.

Damian seemed to have retreated closer to Bruce’s side as Drake relatives crowded Tim, remarking on how long it had been since they’d seen him, and how much older he seemed now. 

Bruce had been ready to intervene, until he saw Tim was calm. That he wasn’t upset by interacting with relatives.

It was...a bit bizarre, to be honest. One relative remarked that he had the ‘Drake eyebrows’ and another told him that he had clearly inherited the science gene, considering the field he’d gone into. 

And Tim handled it all well, chatting back and forth with them.

It was yet another one of those moments that Bruce knew how much Tim had grown up. He smiled over at Damian, saying softly, “Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll come back home once he’s done.”

Damian scowled at him. “Not funny, Father.”

Tim managed to break away to pay his respects to his uncle as well; Bruce was told that it wasn’t exactly a surprise that he’d passed on, what with the diagnosed liver cancer.

He could still remember being in a place like this for Jason, and the difference in atmosphere was jarring. It wasn’t that it wasn’t sad that Tim’s uncle had died; it was that these people had had time. Had known it was coming, and so had a chance to mourn without the ragged tear of grief that a sudden death brought.

He could hear Tim’s relatives telling stories of his uncle, like how he’d tried to sneak back onto the military base while drunk, and how he and his brothers were always getting in trouble as teens. 

Then Tim was ready to go from the calling hours.

They passed his parents on the way out. Tim gave them a polite nod. Mr. Drake gave a polite nod back, and held the door open for Mrs. Drake. 

And then they left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I went to a funeral for a great uncle of mine a couple of weeks ago. It was rough, because I can't say I'm really close to that branch of my family, but I do care about them and they're very warm, welcoming people. I really liked my great uncle, and it's kinda hard to see my grandma's generation slowly disappear. 
> 
> And so I wondered what Tim would feel about distant relatives, especially as an established adult now.

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions, thoughts? My ambition is to have all the bat girls (from Barbara to Harper, and possibly including more obscure such as Bette) show up, and Damian will show up soon enough too.
> 
> Also, Batwoman will probably show up at some point too.
> 
> I would describe Batman's finances as 'sometimes being able to buy middle-range type things, but much of the time not.'
> 
> And y'all will get to see more family dynamics soon! :D


End file.
